Ah… the fair… one of the foundations of summertime in America. And consequently the Devil’s personal, yearly vacation spot/single gateway to the world above.
Every year the filth from around the state crawl out of their holes to make way into town for their favorite event, for all the candy, watery beer, alarmingly hazardous rides, and all the fat-dripping, artery-clogging goodness their stomachs can handle.
How could this not be the devil’s favorite vacation spot? He must come for the same reasons: for the people watching. Think about it, all the mullets and belly shirts you could ever dream of – in one place! It’s more of a dreamland than anything; bad magicians and worse comedians prowling the tents for one last pity laugh, ear-scratching karaoke, poor talent, and a washed up Gallagher (yeah, the racist).
Somehow, every year I get wrangled into going to the fair. I don’t know how it happens; either going with my Ma to keep her company, or my dad giving me free concert tickets. And this year, having moved out of town entirely I figured that I would finally break the slippery pattern. However, just like any other, I got wrangled into it. This time my father had produced two free VIP passes to see Weird Al (everyone’s first childhood love), and free passes into the fair.
Well, we had no excuse to not go; so there were we, on that familiar road towards the towering flames of hell: the fair.
As soon as I walked past the gates the air smelled mysteriously of fried dough and ten cent hookers. Just look down, keep your eyes to the ground, focus on the ground and get to the event center as quickly as possible. And maybe, if you’re lucky, you won’t run in to anyone. That’s the worst part, running into people. You always run into the worst of ‘em too, at the fair, always the same bunch of gross dickbags who hit on you, stared at your boobs, or made racist remarks during highschool. No wonder they’re there really, but the hard part is that you’re in their territory now, and they’ve pissed Miller Lite all over that goddamn place.
Drink a real beer assholes! It’s never a pleasant experience to run into these people. There’s always the awkward exchange of glances or the even more awkward few word conversations. I try to avoid this at all costs, not because I’m embarrassed to be there, I would just like as little human contact as possible while I’m there. That’s all. Not that much to ask, right? Luckily I had a trusty body guard this time, so that I could jump behind him at any given moment. I like havin’ him around.
We stopped to get some food, which of we avoided most.
Fair food is always expensive. Shit, everything is expensive there. And for what reason? None other than to suck the soul out of consumers for shitty goods. As I recall it costs ten dollars for a small drops of dough to be deep fried and covered in powdered sugar. What the fuck is that?! Most of the food there is worthy of non-stop shitting for days on end, and by the time you’re through you’ve excreted 60-70% of your body mass and you either pass out from exhaustion and dehydration or you just plain die.
We found the least sketchy looking cart; Mexican food is always a good choice (unless it’s made by white people. Fuck you Taco House!!!). We ate our burritos as fast as possible and made a jumpstart for the event center to grab a couple of seats.
Luckily, we got there unscathed, shoved our Weird Al tickets into the sweaty palm of the toothless collector at the door and marched inside. The place was packed. Mullets and women with sideburns were like candy. We found seats at the back of the VIP section, next to two drugged out Weird Al fanatics with notably ass-length hair and baggy jeans. When the show started everyone rose to their seats. Luckily we were right behind an older wheel-chair bound man, so we didn’t have to stand up and could see perfectly well. All in all the show was pretty good, I must admit that there were some rather hilarious moments.
It was shockingly better than last years show when I went to see Peter Frampton with my Ma and sister. Old women were throwing their brassieres and oversized undergarments onstage as the lighters came out scattered vaguely across the audience. And I’ll never forget the blasted old woman down front in a long white skirt grinding up against a young, awkward hormonal teen, begging for any kind of a boner.
We didn’t stay for the rest of the show, we left right before the encore so we could go and look at the animals. And you can’t even cuddle with the bunnies! Which ought to be against the rules. Let me play with them! They’re so soft. That torturous display only made me want one more.
To sum up my hate for the fair: gross people, food, shows, talents, and you can’t take home the animals! All severely disappointing. And let’s not forget the fucking traffic to get out of there. My god.
So, all in all, fuck the fair.