p.s.

Why in the blazes can't I get this damned blog style to have, at least a LITTLE bit, a wider text format?
It's just this LONG SKINNY column of drivel, not an anywhere near NORMAL width column of drivel.


I know, I know.
But this was the page style template that looks way more cooler with pictures somewhere on it AND let's me have a BLACK background.

Which is just bitchin' awesome and certainly suits my personality down to the ground.


....especially on suicidal rampage sorts of days.

Look Out Gentle Followers,(all 2 of you), I am, Apparently, Back.

Yes.
OVER A YEAR.

What can I say, I've been depressed.
Bad Things Happened.
And, I DID WARN YOU.

But.
It's early August, and THE OHIO STATE FAIR IS UNDERWAY.
Which means...there MUST be a new blog entry.

If only because, once again, I've had entirely TOO MANY opportunities to witness glistening piles of rancid obesity staggering across the heat-shimmering asphalt of 12th Avenue in front of my, (sadly), stationary pick-up truck, a funnel cake in one hand, hitching up an overly stressed-to-the-point-of-exploding tube top and/or an over-extended and butt-exposing pair of Skinny Girl sweat-pants with the other, a glazed look of imminent grease impaction smeared across their "I not only SAW the Butter Cow, I ate her!" fat-wattled* faces.
And, (REALLY, this is THE TRUTH), they generally have at least one whining child in tow who weighs as much as a Volkswagon beetle.
An endless stream of this human miasma that can go on for, (apparently), DAYS.

Ah yes, Ohio, the land of the Walking Suet Cake.
Where we have a State Fair that seems created specifically to celebrate that fact.

And then, there is the young couple who seem entirely oblivious to the concept that, if you place chubby toddler Tiffany-Anne in your Bugaboo Bee stroller without either the sun-shade engaged, or a tub of SPF 35,000 lotion slathered over her entire body, you will be taking home a wretched, screaming, sticky, 32-pound tomatoe, instead of the cute little, not-blistered daughter that you came in with.
And really.
She'd not end up puking all over the backseat of your Subaru, if you hadn't felt compelled to help her shovel a sausage sandwich, a Cup-o-fries, a cotton-candy,(the whole thing, sugar!YUM!), 2 deep-fried Twinkies, a butter-infested roasted corn ear, and 3 chocolate ice-creme cones, (which can be purchased in the Dairy Building, the very same building where The Exploding Fat Lady was seen having a go at the Butter cow earlier in the day), and an "ICE COLD COKE! GET IT HERE!" that was tepid at best, followed by Daddy's insistence that "Tiffy-poo can handle another go on the Tilta-whirl, she's a BIG girl now!" .....

WHY, oh WHY, (insert sounds of wailing, garment rending, and teeth gnashing here), must it always be MY pick-up truck that the least well paid members of the Columbus Police department see fit to stop, so that these sun-burnt and sweatily jiggling pedestrians can make their ways across the street to their cars that, for the low low rip-off price of TEN DOLLARS, are parked on the front lawns of home owners immediately adjacent to the Fair Grounds?

My sensibilities are FAR too delicate for this sort of exposure.

And I cannot look away.

Aside from the fact that it's illegal to drive with one's eyes closed,(not to mention the mortal consequences to said jiggling and burning pedestrians), there's an obscenely hypnotic effect that this Bratwurst slathered,  Giant Corn-dog encrusted, wave of human misery can have upon the frontal cortex.
The almost amoeba-like wobbling progression of the morbese, just one "Get it on a stick" away from a a fatal coronary, just one degree and 12 plodding steps away from a monumental heat stroke....draws the eye, mesmerizes, and changes one's very grip on reality in some indescribable and hellish sort of way......

I am jolted from my reverie by the blast of a police whistle and an orange-capped flashlight waving circles beyond my windshield.
I accelerate...can't get out of there fast enough.....I gain 20 feet...

...only to have step out in front of me, palm extended, whistle shrieking, flashlight flailing, yet another underpaid cop followed by his attendant horde of steaming, waddling Deep Fried Pork Rind aficionados.

My eyes glaze.
I consider suicide by power-window**.
It may be my only way out.












*If you don't know what the term "wattle" is, frickin' Google it, arready. Jeesh!
**Not to be confused with Running Oneself Over With One's Pick-up truck.






yes, I DID notice the missing 'h' in "where". Did you?