Papa’s Basement 9-19-09 ft. Veronica
John roid-rages his way through an hour-long geyser of hatred, the targets of which include Megan Fox, Patrick Swayze and another radio show on the station he broadcasts from. There’s […]
Last weekend, after finishing my radio show (the fantastic Papa’s Basement that you can find mp3s of on this very site, cough cough) I decided to take my mom to the Frederick Fair in Frederick, MD. It is a little known fact that my mom hails from this Shelbyville to Fairfax’s Springfield, and I thought it’d be a nice gesture. That and I’d decided my male bosoms weren’t big enough, a problem a few of the fair’s delightfully greasy oyster sandwiches were more than happy to help me fix.
For those of you not familiar with Frederick (you lucky, lucky souls), it is a curious mix of urban and rural (code for white farmer and black city-dweller). I like to think of it as a melange of all that is seedy and low-budget (in other words, all that is Maryland), but lately, it has enjoyed a lot of economic growth and new, hoity-toity citizenry. Still, much like a fat girl that got in shape but has stretch marks that betray what she once was, I figured the sights at the fair would yet make for some solid entertainment. And Frederick, God bless her, did not disappoint. Below are a few pics I decided to snap with my phone after one sight in particular screamed, “Write about me, damn you!” Lest you think that I trolled for hours for these shots, I will state for the record that all of these pictures were snapped within a 10-minute period along a drag of fair ground that could not have been longer than 200 yards. Now on with the show.
This is the bad boy that possessed me to write this inane little piece in the first place. I know a lot of people are into mocking the whole wolf t-shirt look as kitschy crap (which it is, but I despise scenesters that hate on safe things like wolf t-shirts and Snuggies), but this monstrosity was massive. I kid you not, it was six feet by eight feet, minimum, and covered the entire side of the peddler’s booth. Meaning there was a moment in this man’s life where he thought to himself “My economic livelihood will be best served by this black velvet masterpiece that appeals both to truckers and people into depictions of wolves that look like they’re about to rape you.”
This was the side of a stand that allowed patrons to get their picture snapped and then “gussied up” with a customizable border. Why you would pay money to make a picture of your ugly mug even more unflattering with a tacky caption is beyond me, but I chose to snap this one because the “Gangsta Boo,” “Bling Bling,” “Blazin'” and “Homies Forever” frames are the perfect complement to the “A Touch of Class” number in the lower right. Otto von Bismarck was once quoted as saying “I never feel classier than I do getting my picture taken at a fair with the smell of animal feces in the air and the powdered sugar of a funnel cake smeared on my face.” I guess he was well-versed in diplomacy and culture.
If Requiem for a Dream managed to bang Sophie’s Choice, their love child would be about one-fiftieth as depressing as this pony. What the hell is wrong with this li’l guy? Jesus Christ, and I thought I hated work. Just looking at this makes me wish I had a gun. For me, not him. Because I’m sure he’d find a way to be even more depressing in death. I suppose I’d also be this down if my job were to be chained to the Wheel of Pain from Conan the Barbarian, but put on your game face, pal.
Once this guy wheeled into view, Pony’s depression made a lot more sense. Not only are you chained all day, carrying around little booger-eaters that may or may not be potty trained on your back, but you have Cleetus over here staring at your ass the whole time, getting God-knows-what thoughts about you into his impure brain.
I can see it now: the fair has been closed for hours, all the patrons gone. Pony thinks for once it may be a quiet night. But that is not to be the case. Cleetus approaches, soused to the gills, and whispers “You didn’t think I’d forget about you, did ya?” into the majestic equine’s ear. A solitary tear runs down the beast’s once-proud face, and the horror that each night brings begins anew. At this point I had to turn away lest I, too, be crushed by the tragedy of the scene.
This trash can instantly broke the spell of the sad pony, and I was laughing again in no time. Just look at that face! Anyone who is afraid of clowns is a moron. Sure, I find them idiotic and receive no joy from them, but that describes like 98 percent of the things in my life. If anything, after a few moments, I began to stare at that mouth the same way Cleetus stares at that pony. Time to move on.
Okay, when did the wolf become the official state animal of Whitetrashsylvania? And what is with the whole “The South will rise again” thing? I get taking pride in your roots, and I’m cool with the Confederate flag (mostly because Willie Nelson is) but I sincerely felt bad for the black people walking by this. It’d be like being Jewish and having a German best friend with Swastikas all over his house. Talk as he might about how the German army was not directly tied into Nazism and he was proud of his grandfather’s military service, I’m pretty sure that, at the slightest provocation, I’d scream “Yippee ki-yay, Hans Gruber!” and stab him through his windpipe.
More swag for the walls of the ultimate pantie-peeling bachelor’s pad. Personally, I’d had my fill of eagles and big rigs, but my mom had gotten in on the action and said she really wanted a picture of that mass of grey chin plumage. I happily obliged.
Without a doubt, my favorite from the night. This modernistic masterpiece of airbrushed glory, triumphantly displayed on the side of a fun house, says so much with so little. The canine-faced being, ensconced in fur, displays the wild, animalistic side of man raging against the efforts of modern society, depicted by the gentleman in a dapper suit, to tame it. The sleeping woman obviously symbolizes nature incarnate, letting us know that we court the wrath of Mother Nature at our own peril. And the three winged beings evoke the Holy Trinity and remind us that, be we more animal than man or more man animal, God is present in our lives, regardless. Or it could be that Dracula, Wolf Man and three baby dragons are fighting for dibs on grey-raping the roofied amazon. Either way, awesome.
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