That's how they're supposed to do nowadays. Craziness and rankness alone is undesirable. Back when I rode bulls, I only ever had one really come after me. I had just come off the bull, and I was so high off of a good ride that I couldn't see straight. I always turned and did the Lane Frost hand wave with the crowd (he was my hero). Back then I weighed about a buck forty on the bootheels, I was wiry in them days before the Army. My brother was working the bucking chutes, and the bull had come out, bucked to the left, spun into my hand, pulled a straight line like a horse, then cut back and I deposited myself in front of the chute I'd come out of. I was hand waving and I began to levitate, having been yanked up by the yoke on my bull vest, and that son of a gun ran right under me with a passion. Turns out, in my stupor, I hadn't seen that the critter had decided we wasn't through, and my brother had been conveniently mulling around a chaw standing up on the inside of the chute. He sat me down, and mute as a tailor's dummy I just walked over to a panel and let myself out with no further fanfare. Bull was corriente crossed with something, he was red with black striping, and no unimpressive display of horn. I am glad my brother used to work out back then.