The dominant theme here is pride. A sinful, reckless pride. It acts like a contagion on this poor steer.
"Yes, of course you have a lot to be proud of—starting with those freakish horns." (Don't stare, and don't use the word phallic—you don't want to set him off.) "But really, sir, you have taken this too far."
Somehow, he manages to strut while standing still. Perhaps someone is overcompensating for an execrable self-image? He is overly concerned with gaining our approval. The legend above him, a desperate declaration of his value, screams Low Self-Esteem. Combine this with the slab of beef on the (pardon me) crowbar (?) and you've got an undeniable cry for help.
He poses in front of the prop corral fence, giving us the "thumbs"-up, the flames rising ever higher, and you can't help but wonder: Did it have to come to this? What if he had someone to talk to?
Even the most casual social critic will concede that the Roadhouse fosters a warped view of masculinity. Where worth is determined by palatability, we inherit a strange world indeed.