It was basically a reunion from last year’s trip to the fair, except Deanna joined our caravan and I was happy about that until she yelled at me for not wearing my gimp boot. She can be mean for such a little girl!
Shortly after having our hands kissed with the official “You’re at the Fair Now, Bitch” hand stamp (which was gooey and had the consistency of Pepto-Bismol commingling with ejaculate, and smelled like a vat of burnt rubber and a chemical explosion, thank you Deanna for making me smell it), we adopted our signature “We’re at the fair/amusement park/zoo/anywhere outside of the house” lost locust shuffle. Seriously, at one point I even said, “I feel like we spend 75% of the time just standing around awkwardly in every one’s way” to which Corey attached the very true addendum “and judging everyone.”
Blake and Deanna quickly went off on their own, those lucky kids. Henry and I might have done that too, if we weren’t saddled with Chooch and a good eight years of burgeoning resentment for each other. So instead, Corey and I ran around riding rides that we knew would give us a hurtin’, while Janna and Henry played good parents and cheered for Chooch, who actually smiles on rides now and doesn’t look like he’s riding public transportation to work.
Meanwhile, I spied the nameless yellow ride of doom that left Corey and me with black and blue Rorsach patterns all over our bodies last year. This ride is so deceptive that I swear they purposely didn’t name it so as not to deter innocent riders. You might remember me crying about this ride last year, but here’s an excerpt of what I wrote:
Corey, Blake and I rode this one ride that looked really tame from the ground, but as soon as it started, centrifugal force (I was good at all the sciences but physics) slammed my fat ass into Corey and from there, we enjoyed the most painful, car-wreck-like ride of the fair. Janna, who was watching from the safety of the comfortable land, said it honestly looked like Corey was going to fall out. It was so painful that I was crying/laughing and then, and I’m not going to lie, a pee drop came out, so not only did I have to fight to stay alive, but I had to also spend the duration of that fucking piece of shit ride trying not to urinate on the entire fair below, like I was spraying the fall harvest or some shit. He got me back on another ride later, as my flesh was practically ribboned on the door of the rattling cage in which we were imprisoned.
After we disembarked, Corey and I adopted a zombied gait (I was essentially using both hands to coax my right leg forward); Blake was all, “WTF is wrong with you guys? That ride was fucking great, I enjoyed myself to the fullest.” BECAUSE HE SAT ALONE AND DID NOT HAVE THE OUTSTANDING OPPORTUNITY TO FEEL THE SENSATION OF MELDING WITH ANOTHER HUMAN BEING.
Since it was just Corey and me riding it this time, we came up with the brilliant solution of sitting separately so no one would have to get squashed. Each car seats four: two in the front, two in the back. I climbed into the back and yanked the safety bar down across my lap. That’s when I realized that there’s a little metal nub which juts down from the middle of the bar, and I presume its function is to keep the riders separated (which in essence only makes for a more punishing cruise through the air). The nub in question came down right between my legs because I didn’t have the foresight to choose a side; I just plopped down right in the middle of the car. Corey, because we share genes, did the same thing. I panicked, which is what I do on rides, and decided it would behoove me to ask the carny if I was going to die because of this.
As the carny approached to doublecheck the secureness of the safety bars, I thrusted my denim’d pelt toward him and asked, “Is it ok that this nub is between my legs?” while pointing at my crotch with one finger on each hand. And even while I was mid-vag lurch, I was already thinking to myself, “Why the fuck are you simulating porn for this lewd carny?” If only I had worn my scrolling neon-lighted “INSERT DIRTY PEEN HERE XXX” booty shorts for the occasion.
Now, you can ask me over and over, “Why did you do that?” but my answer will always be, “I am unsure what possessed me to air-hump the carny and his faux Ray-Bans.” However, after taking in my spread thighs, he laughed and said, “It ain’t gonna hurt you, miss.”
AT LEAST HE DIDN’T CALL ME MA’AM.
Why I felt reassured at all is beyond me because hello, he’s a fucking carny and I’m pretty sure they’re required to fail a lie detector test before getting hired. Because as soon, and I mean AS SOON as that fucking piece of shit ride took flight, I was whipped to the right but the nub was preventing my left leg from following. I started screaming, “I’M BEING WISHBONED! STOP THE RIDE! YOU LIED, THIS HURTS!” but his answer to me was to pull a lever and let the oscillating begin.
The only way for my position on that ride to look natural was to stick my feet in some stirrups and shove a speculum up my vagina. The comfort level probably would have been about the same. Except a pelvic exam is over way sooner than that cunty no-named yellow death trap, which I am now dubbing Aerial Pelvic Prod.
When the ride came to a stop, the lecherous carny came around to release us from the yellow jaws. To me he asks (with a scandalous smile), “See, it didn’t hurt you, did it?” I was about to argue that it did, but instead I laughed nervously and said, “No, you were right” because I really wasn’t trying to get dragged back to his shanty so he could perform some mystical vaginal massage on me, by which I mean rape. And everyone knows that carny rape only leads to triplets who heirs to the knife throwing booth and stink naturally of grease, Skoal and fried onions.
Like this hottie!
Apparently, Bingo is why we were ditched by Blake and Deanna. Their expressions speak a thousand words.
Stuff that hot sausage in your hot sausage hole, Henry you dumb douchebarrel. I will say that Henry was not as pissy as he was last year. His ovarian cysts must not have been bursting that day. Maybe also because my aunt Sharon financed our fair field trip and he didn’t have to pick food scraps out of the clown-faced garbage cans.
Corey was so excited to win at this game. We’ll pretend like he was playing against seasoned veterans of the fairground water gun sport, and not, you know, my three-year-old son. Corey’s favorite part was totally when he tried to take his stuffed animal (which I hope is displayed proudly in his dorm room) off the bleached headed game master, who proceeded to tease Corey by raising it out of his reach. He only did that TEN TIMES so it didn’t get old or anything.
[There’s one more part to come. I’m trying not to inundate the Internet with a thousand pictures all at once. Also, I’m too lazy to write it all at once.]