Friday, June 29, 2012

I lamb what I lamb, it says on the funny sign

This is my weekly entry for Dude Write,
which is a place where men submit their writing, people vote, and fake prizes are distributed. Please check out some of the other writers there!

 

Lucille Ball, that ginger harpy.


I especially hate the one where Lucy, Ricky, Fred, and Ethel go on a road trip that leads them in an infinite loop: continually returning to a terrible diner where the demonic figure of George Skinner switches hats and desks in order to bilk them out of all their money.


Why won't you punch him out, Fred? You look just like Butterbean; can't you fight like one, too?


Make of Ethel a gift to him.


One time we went to this Lamb Festival in the middle of nowhere, and it made me think of George Skinner.


We drove quickly, fearing an overstuffed parking lot.


We went inside the Visitors Center.


A teenage girl stood behind a counter, slowy twirling a rack of hot dogs over a heat lamp.


"Four tickets, please," I said.


"Oh you can't buy tickets here, you buy them at the ticket counter." She pointed the way.






Hot Dog Girl's identical twin stood at the ticket desk.


I looked back to make sure she had not pulled a George Skinner and duck walked over here, quickly switched hats, and popped up in time to ask for my money.


Judging from the price of the tickets, we were funding Lamb Fest's entire operating budget for the week.


"Here are your two complimentary tokens for the carnival games, and your wrist bands."


 I wordlessly offered her my wrist.






...is what she should have said.


But no, the poor girl, probably assuming I was a bit touched, carefully wrapped the little paper band around my wrist, and made sure it adhered snugly to it's other end.


Whenever scenarios arise that involve wrist bands, entry stamps, ticket stubs, or the like, I think I revert to some phase of child brain development wherein I become unable to determine my own course, and am content, even needing, the intervention of another to light the path.


Left all alone, I believe I would end up with my "Over 21" stamp on my palm, where sweat and nervous gripping would make quick work of it; or my Lamb Festival wrist band would be around my neck, and there, on the floor, turning blue, my wife beside me and screaming, "Why did you let him put on his own wrist band? Can't you see he's not well?!? Get it off, oh someone cut it off...."


She produced that wrist band from her drawer, and my brain went slack, my wrist rose on automatic.




"Can we play the carnival games, Daddy?"


"Of course...we have two free tokens after all," I say, spreading my arms wide in an odd celebratory fashion.





The carnival games consists of yet another George Skinner girl, standing by a wooden board with a hole cut in the middle.


The object of the game is to throw a ball through the hole, and the prize for doing it is a small red balloon you must inflate yourself.


A little boy stood directly in front of the hole, throwing the ball through over and over again.


I want to complain that he will, eventually, win all the remaining prizes, but I decide to bide my time and see how the scenario unfolds.


"Caleb! Let them people do it!" the girl barks.


The boy walks away.


Both my sons are unable to throw the ball through the hole.


"They can git closer," says the girl. She gives us all a once over and hides her smile.


Not a good thrower in the bunch, I wager....she thinks, letting her eyes come to rest on me.


She has the large hands and tanned skin of a farmgirl, anxious for summer to come so she can do sex to her boyfriend and eat a pork chop after.


I want a red balloon so bad, but I daren't try to throw, I daren't.


Mustn't give her the satisfaction; the delight she would receive from watching me humiliate myself; the right arm drawn backwards on an impractical angle that foreshadows a toss straight into the tops of my shoes; the left absently rising to cup my breast, uncertain of where else to go.


"Lets find us some lambs!" I say, in my best hey-kids-every-minute-is-the-peak-of-fun-and-laughing Dad voice.


We troop out of the Visitor Center and across a cold, dead stretch of road to get to the barn.




The little horse comes trotting happily up to us.




 "Aw cute.....," no one says about a horse with nasal discharge gone wild.





The barn is almost deafening loud; the hundred bleats and bellows of sheep and goats hoping someone will buy cones of feed for 2.50 and then whip that feed right into their faces.


Little children are pretty good at that.


Mine are plugging their ears in terror.


"It's too loud!"


"I'm scared!"


They throw their cones of feed down, just shy of the actual animals, and make a run for it.


As we are leaving, I notice a sign advertising "World's Scariest Hayride".


Given the Lamb Festival, I can only imagine what this hayride might consist of:


A tired farmer at the wheel, sporting the pumpkin socks he breaks out only for Halloween.


The route takes you in a loop; past an inflatable ghost on a stick, then past a man in a ski mask, holding an air horn and hiding in the bushes, then a long stretch of nothing but autumnal twilight and the boom and spit of the tractor's engine protesting the extra load.




Between passes, Ski Mask Man scurries over and re-inflates Stick Ghost in wheezy, emphysemic breaths.


On your way out, the propriater stands there, holding a lit sparkler.


"Pleasant Nightmares, children!" he cackles, in his best rendition of the Crypt Keeper.


The sparkler sizzles out, burning his finger, and he yells, "Shit!"

You spend the rest of your Halloween warning your children that 'shit' is the Devil's word for BM's.




38 comments:

  1. Can't wait for summer so she can do sex to her boyfriend and then eat a pork chop...


    //dying

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    1. P.S. I'm kind of sad now that I was born and raised and spent my first 48 years in California, where pork chops after "doing sex" was just never an option.

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    2. Of course not. In California, men eat sandwiches after sex, and women continue starving themselves, glad to have burned off some calories with the humping.

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  2. Sounds like Heaven on Earth... Great post Gweenbrick!

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  3. This is hilarious. Today I took my offspring to an indoor nightmare (play place). They stamped my hand and I loved it. For a nano-second, the responsibility landed squarely on someone else's shoulders.

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    1. Ooh-indoor play places have the best diseases

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  4. What kind lamb festival is it when you don't eat any lamb?

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  5. We once upon a time had a Greek 'restaurant' at the maLL that served gyro sandwiches, which we, which stands for Wife and Ernest, loved very much. Until, the day my wife found out that the gyro meat had lamb in it, then she would never ever ever eat them again. That was in my pre-buffalo days, before The Study of BSE.

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    Replies
    1. I love Greek food too, except mousakka. That is nasty.

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  6. I laughed for a good minute at the "haunted stick" map.

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    1. I think my hardest laugh was right after reading the "Oh, you can't buy tickets here ..." sentence and seeing the neXt picture.

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    2. Thanks guys! I was working in a hurry, so I kept the pictures really simple

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  7. Sex and pork chops, is that the new chicken and waffles?
    Very Funny
    WG

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  8. Loved it when you offered your wrist for the girl to attach the wristband! Hope you win a man card of some sort ;)

    I'm travelling to the States in a few days so not sure when I'll be around next - have to wait and see how things go. Until next time - happy blogging :)

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    1. Yeah,I heard they don't have internet in the States. Those hillbillies....

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  9. Hahahahha...did your kids think it was entertaining?

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    Replies
    1. Little bits of it, I suppose....By the way, Hi GIA!

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  10. Gweenbrick, this is genius man. Pure genius.

    Having been raised a good portion of my life in rural/southern areas, I can both appreciate and empathize with this post.

    Been there done that! Didn't bother with the t-shirt because it was a "wife-beater" with BBQ stains.


    Michael A. Walker
    Defying Procrastination

    p.s. I remember that Lucy episode. One of my favorite shows as a kid.

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    Replies
    1. Hi Michael! Thank you so much! I liked Lucy when I was a kid, too, but now....I can't get past her mugging to the camera

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  11. This sounds like you went to Idaho for this event. However, we don't call it "lamb fest," we just call it a normal Friday...

    (Goddamn I hate this town...)

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    1. Hi Brandon! Thanks for reading...love this comment, as it reinforces all my stereotypes about Idaho

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  12. I love lamb fest story but...pretty disappointed you don't like 'I Love Lucy'. Still love ya, Gweenbrick.

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    Replies
    1. I liked it when I was a kid...does that count?

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  13. Much in the way your left hand cups your left breast when righty is busy doing the throwing/yo-yoing/anything remotely challenging, my left hand will invariably end up splayed straight out in a tension filled, stiff hand-version of Edvard Munch's The Scream.

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    Replies
    1. Awesome-we should start a bloggers T-ball league

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  14. hahaha - Gawd Gween you set the scene so well I feel I was there and now I need a lie down.

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    1. Aw thanks Julie-appreciate you always reading

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  15. I'm glad I'm not the only one who was confused by the lack of gyros at the lamb fest.

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    Replies
    1. That would probably have required them to have some sort of a budget

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  16. I thought for a second you'd been following me...

    I live in the middle of the Midwest and this sounds oh so very familiar. We have to make our own fun around here. ;-)

    By the way, if you're really from the Midwest, you'd have a pork steak not a pork chop. Just sayin'.

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    1. I think Michigan is considered fake midwest-I have not heard it called a pork steak, but I like how it sounds

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  17. "I want a red balloon so bad, but I daren't try to throw, I daren't."

    Had me laughing quite hard.

    And just reading about that hayride is going to give me nightmares.

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  18. Very nice. That haunted stick sounds like some quality family time!

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  19. I now thing back to all of the times I made someone else put my wristband on. Are we supposed to put them on ourselves? I never thought of that. I like people doing stuff for me.

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