There’s an old saying. If you’re a young man at Stampede and you’re not getting laid, you must be lazy!
Ken and Val locked eyes 27 years ago at the Silver Slipper saloon. His promise to love her until dawn do us part was gently declined. A reminder to live every day like it’s (dry) hump day.
All aboard the cocktail train. Chugga-chugga whoo-whoo!
Pre-drink to preserve your sanity, or the lineups will catapult your caboose off the rails. Hit the hooch early, then shift to coast. Urban cowgirls are born to be wild, but only until 10 pm.
Fries and shine! From sunup to shuteye, fried food is a Stampede staple. Step aside corn dogs, there’s a new sheriff in town. Grilled cheese cricket sandwiches and bull testicle blueberry balls are not for the faint of (cheesy chicken) hearts.
Strategically plan your Stampede parties for every second day. Back-to-back events take years off your life. The day after should be reserved for binge-watching Netflix from the comfort of your couch.
Dehydration and heatstroke wreak havoc on your body. High noon swelter takes its (Montezuma’s) toll. It’s a mystery what happens to the assload of fluids. Drought impedes the booze-water intake and porta-potty outtake.
Twenty something hard bodies in Daisy Dukes and bosom baring bras are a hard pill to swallow when you’re standing there all old. Mature bodies are functional. Almost dropped your phone in the toilet? Your thighs say “Nah girl, we got you.”
Women of a certain age are still considered a hot commodity, even outside of Florida. Panthers garnish attention. It’s a numbers game. Hey baby, you better call life alert because I’ve fallen for you and I can’t get up.
Stampede is a marathon, not a sprint. Over the years we’ve mastered the ins and outs, but most importantly, we train year round.
JOIN THE SISTERHOOD. Subscribe today!
Share our shit with your favourite peeps.