What happens when you binge-watch Yellowstone and decide you’re the next Rip Wheeler? In this edition of Last Laugh, Matt Meltzer introduces a Californian tech entrepreneur who has embraced the cowboy lifestyle, minus the actual cowboy work.
Hi there. Oh, sorry. Howdy! Name’s Rip, welcome to my ranch. This ranch is 800 acres of pristine wilderness, which I keep pristine with a staff of landscapers and designer wood chips. You might wonder how I got palm trees to grow in Wyoming, but that’s the magic of using Balenciaga mulch.
Me and the wife … oh, sorry, honey … my kindred soulmate moved out here from Costa Mesa a few years back. Yep, we’re California Refugees! Some people say calling ourselves refugees was kinda dramatic, since we’re not fleeing bloodthirsty street gangs or anything. But have you seen the taxes there? It’s basically the same thing.
Really, we moved here because we spent a week bingeing Yellowstone, and decided we were actually cowboys. The twin flame teaches yoga and I run an AI startup that’s $2 billion in debt. But after watching the show we knew our true calling was owning a ton of land that everyone in the state would kill for.
She bought an entire wardrobe based on “Bell Bottom Country.” I legally changed my name from Roland to Rip. Every question at work turned into a monologue about sharks and minnows. Somehow, our start-up office now looks like an “Under the Sea” prom theme.
Before we made the move, I knew I had to gear up like a real cowboy. So, I went to the most logical place for a cowboy to shop: Rodeo Drive. There’s a gen-u-wine Texan there named Tom Ford, who was nice enough to outfit me in a pearl-button shirt that cost more than an actual horse.
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Then, the divine counterpart and I packed up everything we had in enough moving trucks to relocate the Cleveland Browns and headed to the wide-open spaces of Wyoming.
Our first stop was Jackson Hole, a rustic, rough-and-tumble mountain town where after a long day of rustlin’ cattle—or apres ski—a cowboy can rest his head at the Four Seasons. They’ve even got firepits where you can end your night telling stories by the fire, passing around espresso martinis just like they did in the Old West.
We found our land and laid claim with several million dollars and a 30-year mortgage. Then, we started raising cattle. OK, maybe not raising. More like hiring guys to do the raising. Once we finish our next round of funding, though, I’m replacing them all with AI robots. They don’t leave Marlboro Reds all over the stables, and none of them have to pay child support.
Our ranch hands are assisted by our field dog, Princess. You might wonder how a Toy Pomeranian is able to get horses in line, but he’s pretty fierce. Let’s just say you don’t wanna be a prairie dog ’round these parts when Princess is on patrol. Look, we even got him his own little red bottom cowboy boots.
Sometimes they use our tractor, too. It’s a Lamborghini. The guys say it’s worthless for plowing anything, but boy is it great for riding into town when I have a hankerin’ for a vanilla latte.
So yep, we’re real country folk now, learning to live off the land, and whatever we can import from Italy. Every day I feel more and more like a cowboy, at least that’s what everyone tells me when I go shopping for cowboy hats in Jackson. If you need to borrow one, I’ve got ’em in 15 colors.
