You won’t find a bigger Phil Lynott fan on the planet, but I have to say: I don’t like being rolled over or turned around, I’m not a fan of spinning until I hit the ground, and a cowboy’s life is assuredly not for me.

Are you kidding? You have to sleep on the ground and get up at the crack of fuck; you’re surrounded by 800-pound behemoths that urinate and defecate all day and all of the night; you’re responsible for driving a herd of these fucking things from Texas to Kansas City in like a fortnight; you’re expected to know how long a fortnight is; you spend the nights of that fortnight listening to some asshole play harmonica—no thank you!

And while I do spend a lot of time thinking about a certain female and prefacing statements I make with the exclamation, “Lord,” I’ll tell you what I don’t need: no coyote calls, no howling winds wailing, no getting took in Texas, no busting broncs for the rodeo, absolutely not!

In fact, the only thing I can think of that would be worse than being a cowboy is being a farmer. Either that, or a musician.