The Day I Caved to Commercialism

I am always at a loss when someone asks those questions pertaining to which celebrity or famous person I'd want to meet/eat lunch with, ect. Today, though, I finally had a definitive answer. Hand me some carrots, son...I want to eat lunch with the Budweiser Clydesdales. 

Yes...I know it's a colossal gimmick. 

I don't care.

Yes...I know that I am being used as a marketing ploy for an adult beverage company who have recently made some spokesperson mis-steps...word-to-the-wise...the Clydesdales are ALWAYS in step.

Again...don't care.

I alerted Brad that our famous friends would be visiting the local grocery store a week preceding the event. He admirably concealed his excitement.

I dutifully conducted a daily Clydesdale Count-Down for him which I am SURE he appreciated.

And then...TODAY!!!

"What time is this thing again?" Brad asked.

"2 to 4," I promptly responded.

"Shouldn't we be leaving then?" he said, glancing at the clock as he tied his shoes.

I was still curled up in my chair. "Easy there, Cowboy," I told him,, glancing up from the television, "We don't want to get there too early."

We arrived promptly at 2 pm and strolled across the packed parking lot to take our place behind about 100 other excited people. 

"Wow! What a line!" I exclaimed.

"Yeah," commented Brad.

We all stood on tip-toe, straining to catch a glimpse of shiny mane, feathered feet, or sparkling eyes. Brad stood on tip-toe, counting the people ahead of us. Brad Mosiman is not a big fan of lines. The Mosiman women discovered this minor flaw when he refused to wait two hours for a cannoli from Buddy "The Cake Boss's" bake shop in Jersey. According to Brad Mosiman, no amusement park ride is worth more than a thirty minute wait. Things came to bitter head when he once refused to wait in line to get into the drive-in...we were sitting comfortably in the truck, for Pete's sake...if we'd left two hours early like we'd told him but, no-oo...he HAD to finish mowing the lawn first. Known as The 2006 Pirates of the Caribbean catastrophe, we learned to abandon Mr. Waits-For-Nothing when the possibility of a line was imminent.

But, for some reason, I naively believed that I would be the only one eager to pet a pilsner pony. 

Brad frowned as he glanced at the gray clouds over-head.

As we inched closer, I delighted in the people around me. The older man with pants up to his armpits who wielded his disposable camera like a six-shooter. The disgruntled family who had mistakenly believed that they would be given the opportunity to ride the Budweiser wagon around the parking lot. There were a shocking number of flip-phones. I found it hard to believe that I was part of this demographic. I decided to focus on the families...who brought their children to support a beer product. 

"Where are the protesters?" I asked.

"No one is going to protest a horse," Brad told me, sighing as we were now 45th in line.

"Oh my gosh, I've got a great idea!" I clapped, "We could name the horse, Dylan Mul-neigh-ey!"

My husband sighed again. "I think they're trying to step away from that a bit."

"No," I protested, "The answer is humor. They tried to go woke but forgot the joke."

It was finally our turn. 

"You can pet him here," the handler said, pointing to the flank. "What's his name?" I asked as I was eclipsed in this horse's shadow. 

"Red."

I repressed a smile as I considered the political connotations of that term. "I know you're originally from Scotland," I murmured to my new friend, "but you should probably emigrate to Switzerland. Product representatives should at least try to appear neutral."

Red seemed to agree. With an aggravated flap of his tiny tail, he tossed off his patriotically-printed butt bow. This small revolt was swiftly addressed as the man holding the reins promptly re-instated the undignified derriere decoration. 

"Isn't that the way?" I said with a sympathetic pat, "but it'll take more than a little flap to stirrup any real change." I studied this two-ton, docile creature whose tongue is controlled by a bit, who is directed by pressure, whose vision is limited by blinders, harnessed to pull the economic weight of the corporate machine..."You really are the perfect representative for American consumers," I realized. 

Oh my gosh...it's time for me to get off my high horse. I'm sorry...I didn't mean to be such a neigh-sayer.  This was supposed to be the story about my utter delight in getting to have a brief interaction with one of the Budweiser Clydesdales (which I loved). I apologize that I, instead, offered unsolicited feedback. The only one who likes its feed back is a horse.