Mutton Bustin'

The greatest thing about a sheep is that you can strap a child to it, then make it tear ass around an arena.

As far as I’m concerned there are only two reasons to have children.

Reason 1: so that your progeny can carry on generational blood feuds, Hatfield & McCoy style.

Reason 2: so you can make them ride a sheep.

Or are you not from Colorado?

Because if you do hail from the Centennial State—even the rarified, sissy parts, such as my city-self—you understand somewhere deep in your bones that the greatest thing about a sheep is that you can strap a child to it, then make it tear ass around an arena.

Otherwise known as mutton-bustin’.

Tell me you’re from Colorado without telling me you’re from Colorado.

As homogenized as the United States has become, there remain subtle, regional differences in the way that children grow up. Yes, the box stores dress us alike, the chain grocers feed us alike, and the national architectural aesthetic has settled into something along the lines of what if a Chipotle fucked a Chipotle?

There’s no denying that.

But rooted in the soil are slight geographic intangibles that they can never cookie-cutter out of us, no matter how hard they try. All Maine-bred children possess a casual familiarity with the lobster, Texas babies drink oil instead of breast milk, and kids from Colorado just know about weird western shit. Whether we want to or not.

Growing up, school outings were taken to historic mines in nearby mountain towns. We plunged deep into the earth with little hard hats on, learned that children our age once did exactly this, and that the men who made them do it spent their money on whores. We heard about Tommyknockers, panned for gold, and learned about iron pyrite. We drove by Buffalo Bill’s grave on the regular and knew that Doc Holliday died in Glenwood Springs. We learned that all these people contributed to the extermination of the Native Americans, and we sat in that white guilt, as we should have.

But mostly we just waited for the stock show to come back to town.

The stock show was, and is, the crown jewel of weird Colorado western shit, field trip catnip for children and adults alike, all of whom giddily cosplay cowboy and devour deep fried everything.

Honestly, it’s a blast.

Do you know how the National Western Stock Show starts? How it’s announced to the city, et large? To herald its arrival, they run cattle through the streets of downtown Denver. I’m not even kidding. Today, in 2026, right here in tech-bro, vaping Denver, hundreds of cattle stampede down boulevards, signaling that things are going to be very different for about a month.

Because come January, every rancher, cowboy, and cattleman in a ten-state radius packs up their wares and heads for the bright lights of the Mile High City. There, under the highway, in a coliseum next to a dog food factory, they gather and talk cattle, sell cattle, jump on, and tie down cattle. Rugged good-old-boys in bolo ties and ten-gallon hats backslap their way through a year’s worth of business, meanwhile a cottage industry of western-outfitters pops up around them, riding the wave of all that surplus cash.

Need a malachite-handled Bowie knife? Head to the stock show. Moose carved out of a tree trunk? Get your ass down to the stock show. The latest and greatest in bull insemination technology? Brother, it ain’t at Macy’s.

And listen, all of this is woefully problematic. Like, so bad. Don’t ask how these fuckers vote, because you know how they vote. And it’s egregious. Never mind the animal abuse of all these rodeo antics, or the fact that the stock show is consistently the largest human trafficking event in the western United States. All of that is just swept under the rug, lost in the vagaries of a collective western nostalgia,

It was a different, nearly bygone time, damnit! So celebrate it, Colorado kids! Claim it as part of your heritage, even though you parents moved here in the 70’s to practice journalism and law. Just put on this belt buckle and eat some funnel cake, already!

So we all just did.

We all just do.

Annually.

My parents took me. Now I take my kids. Call it liberal Colorado cognitive dissonance. We protest ICE, and celebrate trans rights, then we go watch men hurt cows.

Which brings us to mutton bustin’.

My favorite part of the stock show, by far, is that it offers children ages five to seven the opportunity to climb onto the back of a sheep and try not to fall off. They time the children, and whoever holds on longest, wins. It’s basically bull-riding, just with kids, and sheep. I could try to explain it all day long. It would never do it justice. Just watch.

See? It rules!

Give me a tallboy of Banquet beer, sit me in the bleachers, and I’m good to go. No need to check on your boy ACH, he’s doing just fine.

And yeah, they probably yank on the sheep’s nuts or something barbaric to make it sprint like that; maybe it hurts the sheep as the kids wrench on their wool, I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. I don’t want to deep dive on mutton bustin’, okay? I just love it. Sue me.

Which is why I wanted my kids to do it.

When my eldest, Malcolm, turned five and was finally eligible, I showed him a video of the event, and asked him if he wanted to sign up.

“Surely you jest,” Malcolm scoffed before returning to the opinions section of the Sunday Times while raising his cup for another espresso.

I knew he would be skeptical. He’s thoughtful, and meticulous, risk averse. The type of guy who thinks before he acts.

My other son Ellis, though, ole number two, he’s a wild child. Ellis’ entire worldview is kick a shark in the dick. And you have to respect a guy like that. Because that’s the type of guy you can convince to strap himself to a sheep.

So, we took the boys this year, to see it for themselves. Malcolm is seven now, aged out, but Ellis is four. Next year, he’ll be able to ride. We figured we’d let Ellis get a little taste of it, let him witness buckeroos feted by an arena full of leathery yokels, and he would be back the following year, hungry for the spotlight.

But Ellis didn’t care about mutton bustin’ at all. He watched one kid ride a sheep, shrugged, then wandered the stands handing out the dozen Jesus Loves You slap-bracelets some vendor had stuffed into his pockets. Ellis actually made friends that way, through Christ. That’s how he met this little dude in a cowboy hat.

The two of them just sat there together, chatting about how abortion is a sin or whatever, decidedly not paying attention to the main event. I kept trying to corral Ellis back down to watch mutton bustin’ with us, but he didn’t give a shit.

Meanwhile, Malcolm had become inconsolable that he couldn’t ride the sheep. Because he’ll be too old next year, and we had not registered him this year. We patiently explained to Malcolm that we have been begging him to do this for the past three years, and he has flatly refused us every time, but he wasn’t hearing it. Tonight, he was all in. He wanted to ride. But it was too late. We tried, but we couldn’t pull it off. Mutton bustin’ COLLAPSES without rules. It was too late for Malcolm.

So, Malcolm set about ruining the evening, arms crossed, angry tears in his eyes, livid that he wouldn’t be able to ride a sheep. Every rider was deemed stupid by our eldest, as my wife and I rolled our eyes, and tried to enjoy small children fighting off ovine hooves. Then Ellis fell off the wall where he was sitting with his cowboy friend, and he started to cry. And they both wanted to go home.

We had watched mutton bustin’ for maybe ten minutes.

There are these moments as a parent when you realize that despite the hundreds of dollars you spent trying to orchestrate an evening of family fun, no fun will be had by this family. There you were, hoping for a quaint memory, one that someone could perhaps snap a photo of, a photo you could rub between your fingers as you wander the hallways of your nursing home one day, but nay. That memory will not be yours. Just because mutton bustin’ is your dream, does not make it the dream of your kin. Their dreams involve Pokemon trading cards, and proselyting door to door with their new cowboy friend. They care not for your agenda.

And these frustrating parental fails can make you go one of two ways. They can break you, turn you into an irate dad screaming in a parking lot, or they can open your heart a little wider. They can help you realize there are more than two reasons to have kids. There are, in fact, millions of reasons.

Being a parent is about so much more than perpetuating generational blood feuds, or riding sheep. It’s about meeting these unique individuals exactly where they’re at, not creating a facsimile of you. You can push them in a direction that you’re fond of, and if it takes, great. But if it doesn’t, take your foot of the gas. Maybe even let them take the wheel. They’ll be way happier that way. And you will too.

Some mutton wasn’t meant to be busted.

Still, for what it’s worth, Ellis has two more years left of eligibility. And as a dyed-in-the-wool Denver sports fan, if there’s one thing I’ve learned time and time again, there’s always next year!

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February Shows

Pennsylvania! Coming your way this month! Because you know what people always say about Pennsylvania: you have to see it in February.

February 20 - State College - Manny’s - Tix

February 21 - Pittsburgh - Bottlerocket Social Hall - Tix

Do you live in the area? Come on out to a show! Do you know anyone in the area? Send them out to a show! Every little bit helps!

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Movie News

The movie I wrote, based on my life, See You When I See You, premiered at the Sundance Film Festival this past month, and we got a standing ovation in the Eccles Theater. I’m still floating. The atmosphere in the room was incredible, and it was amazing after all these years to actually sit with an audience and experience people watching this thing. The Q and A after was magic, as people really opened up and shared their stories of mental illness. It was also amazing to hang with so many of the cast and crew, and watch our hard work on screen.

People seemed genuinely moved, but just as importantly, they laughed throughout. The director, Jay Duplass, has been describing our movie as, “a funny Ordinary People,” and I don’t disagree. Neither do a lot of the reviewers. We’re heading to SXSW with the movie next month, and it seems like things are just getting started, but what a start. It couldn’t have been a more memorable debut.

Stay tuned to this Substack, and I’ll share where and when you can see it!

Onwards!

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The Monthly Clip

God damn, Adam. Great clip. Way to go.

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Before you go, give the ole socials a follow

Also, I’ve started posting my shows on PunchupLive. I post a few clips there I don’t post anywhere else, and if you toss them your email, you’ll get one in return when I’m performing in your area. If that sounds like your cup of tea, follow me on there!

Thanks so much for all the support, everyone! If you feel like upgrading to paid subscriber, I’m not going to hate on that impulse. And if you feel like sharing, or telling friends to subscribe, not going to fight you over that either.

IT ALL HELPS.

Hope to see you at a show soon!