I watched the last 10 minutes, or so, of a “Bull Fight” broadcast from Spain (OK, so I have lots of time on my hands.) I am completely disgusted, not at the killing of a bull; but, rather, at its torture. The toreador’s outfit, I must say, was equally disgusting.
How can it be called a “fight” when your opponent has an intelligence such that he is unable learn over the course of an hour, or so, of going after a red cape that, first of all, the cape will always be pulled away and, secondly, the cape is not the enemy, it’s the guy in the Mardi Gras parade outfit sticking sharp things into his back?
The toreador, comporting pomposity on par with that of George Will or William F. Buckley and taking dainty, little shuffling steps, was dressed in gold and powder blue peddle pushers and jacket, with pink stockings and shoes similar to those delicate little slip ons that often come with tassels and which are worn, generally in the U. S. anyway, by vacuous pretty boys.
As the bull pushes his head into the cape (one can hardly call it a charge as by then the bull is completely exhausted) the toreador sticks banderillas into his back; until, finally, the bleeding, heavily panting bull is in such as state so as to enable the toreador to stick a sword into his back in an attempt to kill him. It took this particular toreador four stabs before the bull fell. Of course before the brave toreador takes after the bull, picadors on horseback stab the bull repeatedly with pics to tire the bull so it will lower its head, allowing the toreador access to the bull’s back. Some sport.
I was hoping, as I watched, that the bull would get a horn through the toreador’s gut and prance around the ring displaying his prize to the assemblage.