Alright bros and lady-folk, Gordy Weaver is going to talk about a subject very dear to his heart, and no, I'm not talking about Sasquatch subspecies, I'm referring to the Hillsdale farmers fair. For all you readers who didn't grow up in a hillbilly hellhole, the farmers fair is a grand rural tradition dating back to the seventeen-hundreds, when colonial Americans used to celebrate all the Indians they'd killed during the year by throwing a big hoedown and lighting a corn maze on fire. Also, whoever had the biggest pumpkin got to sleep with the mayor's daughter, and depending on the circumstances, that was a prize you sometimes didn't want. Anyways, the modern farmers fair has come a long way from such humble beginnings. Now you have to pay carnies ten dollars to ride a forty-year old Ferris wheel and pray to god that the thing holds together and that the methhead above you doesn't drip an entire can of natty light all over your good J-crew hat. I've put together a list of do's and do not's for all you jabronis so that your farmers fair experience is as free of misery and trace substances as possible.
Do numero uno: Bum tickets off leaving families. It's hard making money, and there's absolutely no reason to spend much of your hard-earned dough on overpriced tickets. If your kid wants to ride a roller coaster that looks like it was put together by drunken dwarves in a chop shop, well, then that's on you, that's your genetic legacy you're recklessly endangering. But hey, keep an eye out for people that bought way too many tickets. You'll be surprised how many jabronis pony up the big cash for silly shit like carousels and super-slides and then find out junior doesn't want to climb a forty-foot tower and rocket to his doom on a burlap sack oiled with WD-40 (true story). Just be discreet and mildly aggressive, but in a polite way. "You gonna use all them tickets, bro?" is an acceptable way to ask someone.
Don't numero uno: Feed the wildlife. There are three main types of people at the farmers fair: methheads, parolees, and hillbillies. All the skinny people will be the methheads. They're not too bad, but don't get too close. The parolees are the ones covered in neck tattoos. They are actually the nicest people, but I wouldn't leave your children with them, unless you don't want them back. The hillbillies are the common folk, the ones preparing to gorge themselves on elephant ears and walking tacos seemingly conjured up from a hobo's sick. None of the men will be wearing sleeves on their shirts, and the women are often unable to be discerned from the men. Nevertheless, try to interact with these three groups as little as possible. I'm not saying that I'm necessarily cut from a separate cloth; Gordy Weaver was born in the trailer park, and he lost his virginity in the back of a pickup truck with a deer spotlight shining down on him like the eye of god. But you don't want to go down my road, and I don't want to go down it no further. Class up, and don't get a tattoo of a dragon on your forehead, because nobody will know it's a dragon, and you might limit your choice of career.
You'll see a lot of people that look like this.
Do dos: Make it quick and snappy. If you're taking your kid, make sure the little tike gets to ride a few rides and then make like smokey and bandito your ass outta there. You can take the kid to the zoo if you want him or her to see animals--let the little beast live a while longer without realizing the degeneracy surrounding them. Also, the less time you spend there, the less time you'll spend wondering if you should move to a better school district, or at least to an area where people possess most of their teeth.
Don't dos: Eat any of the food. I know type-II diabetes is our national pastime, but really, folks, there's no reason to eat the garbage food at the farmers fair. The sweet shit will make you gain weight just looking at it, and the savory food isn't fit for my dog, and he's eaten condoms found in the park before. I ordered a fajita last year and it was basically expired meat with expired iceberg lettuce garnished on top, wrapped in an uncooked piece of bread, served by a man who has probably never washed his hands. I took one bite, threw up in my mouth a little bit, and then tossed that piece of shit in the garbage. What did I get for my eight dollars? Food poisoning, that's what.
Do tres: I can't think of anything else.
Don't tres: I mean, we kind of covered the big ones.
The farmers fair is a tradition that everyone should experience once, like getting robbed or hit over the head by a chair. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, and I want to be strong as fuck, just like Mark Wahlberg, so I go to the farmers fair every year, even though I hate it. Stay classy, folks. Until next time.
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