You can tame this bobbing brute for about the same cost as a cheeseburger. By 9 p.m. on Wednesdays, when the capsizing critter rolls onto the dance floor, five bucks gets you in the door. Hubris and maybe a shot of whiskey is all it takes to clamber aboard the bucking bovid. But boy howdy, you best dig your heels into the sleek, hard sides of that magnificent mechanical moo-cow if you're going to last. Clamber on, champ, then get that arm in the air, like you're reaching for the disco ball above you. Only them effete, city-born mollycoddles use two goddamned hands, son.

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