Do me a favor and stay out of my town. You stroll in once a year with your carnies, unwinable games and broken-down death-traps you call “rides” while Jeb and his mother-sister unleash their swarm of snaggle-toothed, ill-mannered hell spawn all over my town in a battle over who’s got first dibs at the funnel cake.
Seriously, do you even understand what sort of evil fairs wrought on society? It’s nothing but miles of haystacks, petting zoos, animal shit and these people:
The family that raises chickens together…well, they eat their young.
No, I don’t care that you’ve been raising your pot-belly pig since infancy. No, I don’t give a fuck that you won “Best Milk-Producing Cow.” And, no, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass that your chicken lays the biggest eggs. Get off my land, fuckers!
Let us not forget perhaps the biggest draw at any county fair – these guys:
“Aruba, Jamaica, ooh I wanna’ take ya’ to Bermuda…”
Who are they? I have no fucking clue. But some version of this band is scheduled to play a county fair in your area right this very second. Do you want the credentials on these guys? Well, they all fall into one of the following three categories:
- Never made it big;
- Made it big as a one-hit wonder;
- Made it big, developed coke and alcohol problems, got fat and went bald.
Congratulations, superstars. Your lives are now complete.
As mentioned above, I’d be doing you all a disservice if I failed to elaborate on the fine people who work these fairs. I’m talking about well-mannered rascals like these fellas:
“Which one you want, Clem?”
Your kid ain’t safe. And for that matter, neither’s your cow. And speaking of your kid, do him a favor and take him someplace where the rides aren’t assembled overnight sans three or four “extra” bolts and some duct tape. Oh, he’s having the time of his life, right? Your little guy is on cloud nine, right? Well, trust me when I say that this:
Look, Mom, no hands!
can turn into this in a heartbeat:
Look, Mom, no hands! Or arms! Or heads!
Look, fairs, your heart might be in the right place, but I’ll manage just fine without your corndogs, cotton candy and inbreeding. Last thing I need is my daughter ending up like this fuckstick:
So, until letter “G” runs in and bites you on the ass, have at it, you vultures!