The Glory of the County Fair

Over the years I’ve come to pride myself on possessing a keen ability to abstain from judging people. For example, if I see someone with a slightly misshapen head, or extraordinarily profound ear lobes, I’ll just sort of look through them with a glossy stare and let out a fake a yawn or scratch my head absentmindedly as we pass. Only at a safe distance will I think back on the deformities in my mind and ponder…picturing myself firmly grasping the meaty lobe or running a hot wheels car to and fro over the uneven skullish terrain…

Yet, humble as I am, my servant’s heart is brought to its proverbial knees each year when confronted with a simple visit to the county fair. It’s hardly my fault though. Seriously, is there anything quite like the fair to give that reaffirming rush of genetic superiority? If you don’t believe me, try taking a leisurely stroll amidst the uncomely masses down at the midway. Observe each face filled with wild eyed intentions of blowing hard earned cash on noble pursuits like “Catwack” and “Mighty Payloader”. Come to grips with the realization that said monies, if not piddled away here, would have most likely been used for “investment purposes.” (Lottery tickets.)

Hey, I’ve got an idea- Why not spend a relaxing afternoon in the shade with an iced frappacino and enjoy the show? Let your ego rejuvenate amidst a sea of tank tops and cut off jeans. Uh, white-cut off jeans. Breathe in deep the aromatic potpourri mixture of Brut cologne and feet. Listen carefully for the maternal sounds of an obese chain-smoking mother screaming for her “snot nosed little brats” to “shut up” before she “gives them a reason to shut up.” Sit back in wonderment at just what-that-reason-might-be. Be sure to roar with laughter at every well timed, “git-r-done,” yet still take the time to recognize the subtlety of a classic Big Johnson t-shirt. Later, at the grandstands, observe the congregation pumping their fists in harmonic unison to Loverboy classics, each one yelling his or her heartfelt desires to “turn them loose,” and pray with everything in you that God and/or Loverboy does not grant their request.

I’m not a bad person. Yet I feel like one at the fair primarily because I get these thoughts I can’t control. For example, if I see a person with a wallet in their sock, my brain instantly creates certain questions about such people. Logical questions like, “Do they not have pockets?” And, “So then what’s in the fanny pack?” These thoughts I speak of are so lightning quick that I can’t stop them. Also, they can be pretty funny at times. You see, I enjoy laughter. And why shouldn’t I? God made laughter. But then again, God also made the cut-off t-shirt and the words “sexy beast.” Pot bellied nine year old girls wear such t-shirts and I laugh. Is God to blame?

I will now insert some redneck-ploitation humor I did. You can do your own:

If your daughter has more Raider’s jackets than Howie Long…

You might be a…. Oh well you know.

Man, those are so darned satisfying. But why?

Is it subconscious? Is it racial? Is it that I possess a certain social awareness and they are without? Is it that I possess sleeves and they are without? Perhaps it’s a combination of both.

I often wonder what Jesus would dress like if he came today. Would he shed the robe for a tattered B.U.M. Equipment sweatshirt and skin tight Lee jeans? What about the shoes? High top Pro Wings? My money is on Kmart style Jordan knockoffs. And the car, would we see Protestants someday frowning upon Catholics enshrining an ‘82 Chevette complete with crumpled McDonald’s bags and Shasta Cola cans in the back? Furthermore, would such a car have a sticker of Calvin urinating on a Ford or GMC logo? Does it make a difference? Such a high question-mark-to-sentence ratio in one seemingly sacrilegious paragraph…I wonder…why??

Confused, alone, pondering such things at the fair last Saturday, what I decided I needed most was a black man. Fortunately, there was an elderly one sitting next to me on the bench. His name was Sanford. At least I called him Sanford during our imaginary conversation in which I took the role of “Son:”

Son: What do you think of all those crazy white people Sanford?

Sanford: I think you’re a dang fool.

Son: Sanford, why are all imaginary old black men mad at me?

Sanford: Because you’re desperately terrified of our disapproval. Also, it’s fun for us.

Son: Fair enough. So what’s up?

Sanford: Well, first of all, you’ve got a misshapen head. You call out other people for crap like that but you’ve got to know that this is true.

(pause)

Son: Point taken. Proceed.

Sanford: Secondly, you’re bald.

(pause)

Son: Yes, I hadn’t noticed that before.

Sanford: Well it’s high time you should notice it. Walking up and down here all day, carrying that bald head around in the hot sun. Going home each night, shaving it to try and make you look younger. You ain’t fooling nobody, son.