This weekend, I'm attending the Texas State Fair, and I don't care what anyone thinks. The State Fair is pretty much my only chance to combine my great loves in this world: corndogs, prize winning hogs, and 52 ft tall cowboy statues that talk. To me, those things symbolize America; only terrorists could hate them. If you don't believe me, find yourself a suspected terrorist and offer him a corn dog. One million yankee dollars says he won't eat it because terrorists and corn dogs are like gremlins and water. In the very near future, expect to hear Tom Ridge advising the American people that the only true protection from terrorism is a vest made of weapons-grade cornmeal and weiners.
Back to my point: I enjoy going to fairs. That statement does not apply to all fairs, since Renaissance fairs represent the lamest things in the history of the world. Call me ignorant, but I had no idea that the Renaissance featured a bunch of pasty-faced cashiers from Fry's, running around with powdered wigs and declaring to each other, "Sire, thy cell phone doth ringeth!" Such rampant weinerbiscuitry gets me red in the face. And job fairs? Man, those suck. I went to one my senior year at Trinity, and had to repeat over and over, "No, I'm not interested in an exciting career in selling Canadian yarn art." I felt like I needed a tetanus shot after a day at that place. I will not even get into science fairs, since my numerous entries on Sasquatch's mating habits were never deemed SCIENTIFIC enough for admission. Just as I told the Arlington School Board, I will tell you all now: I stand behind my methodology. Like Galileo and Darwin before me, they persecuted me for daring to dream. This is why I will never support the science fair.
But REAL fairs, with carnies and funnel cake and squash growing competitions, cannot be beat. I say with this authority because, in 1984, I visited the World's Fair in New Orleans with my parents. Yeah, I'm not exactly a lightweight. Twenty years later, I don't remember it perfectly, but we definitely saw some shrunken heads and rode some sort of mermaid ride. Although I was only 3 at the time, I remember thinking, "I belong here!" And then I remember thinking, "If I don't master this potty training gig soon, I'll be wearing diapers forever." Call me Nostradamus, because time has proven me right about both.Posted by Cody at October 14, 2004 7:07 PM