Also: BOOBS.
Last weekend, Y Chromosome and I went to Maryland to see my sister and brother-in-law. We checked out their awesome new digs in their pretty new town, played with their lovely-but-99.44-percent-pure-insanity cat, and struck some incredibly embarrassing poses in their Wii Fit (”I call this one the geriatric flamingo with arthritis and a bladder problem”).
If all of that wasn’t enough, they also took us to the Renaissance Festival.
To listen to my sister talk about it, you wouldn’t know that there was any other attraction at the festival other than BOOBS. We walked through the gates, and suddenly my sister warped into a 14 year old boy, pointing out BOOBS that were really hanging out, sighing that some BOOBS weren’t hanging out nearly enough, rating the BOOBS she saw, spraying on way too much Axe body spray, but refusing to shower.
Sister: Look! Look at those; they’re huge! Turn around, quick! Before she walks away!
Y Chromosome: Why does it look like she has indents across the center of them?
Me: To fold up for easy storage, like a card table?
And then another woman behind us, as if on cue, reached about a foot down into her bosom and pulled out a lighter, an ugly lamp, and a measuring tape which indicated just what snotty little bastards we are. Later we jumped into a chalk drawing and taught our tight-assed father how to love.
Clearly these boobs are not going into storage, they ARE storage. Also, they’re magical.
Since I can’t show you a whole bunch of pictures of BOOBS (well, technically I can, but a prudent businesswoman such as myself would never do so without charging you a ton of money, creating a sister 900 number, and distributing tasteless t-shirts, and people I am just too swamped for that kind of lucrative debauchery), so I will just have to show you some of the lesser attractions instead.
There was jousting.
Before the match, our side’s cheerleader came out with his “Huzzah!” sign and warned us that we should only cheer; he would tolerate no catcalls, booing, or anything rude. And I rolled my eyes and was all, “Huzzduh! What am I, some sort of Neanderthal, or other strain of NFL fan?”
Cut to me 5 minutes later, catcalling, booing, and going into a general fit of rage. I can’t really be sure, since I blacked out for a bit, but I think I might’ve punted a small child into the side of the face painting booth.
We watched Mutts Gone Nuts.
I may or may not have tried to sneak out of the park with a couple of mutts in my jacket. I’ll be able to discuss this in greater detail after the trial is over.
And then there was the food.
Fried dill pickles, fried mushrooms, pretzels, turkey legs, beef jerkey, Italian ice on an orange half, turkey BBQ, mead. Filter all of the fat out of my blood, and you could market the rest as saline solution.
And then I met my new love. Deep fried Snickers bars, which are exactly as gross and wonderful as they sound.
Please ignore the blurry picture; my heart stopped out of sheer longing for this little beauty. Either that or the trans-fats seized up my ticker.
Sorry, Y Chrome, it was bound to happen. You know how long I’ve been struggling with your deficiencies: namely the fact that you are not made of chocolate, covered with batter, and deep fried. Hey, I gave you the chance. But you said that my Personal Immersion Deep Fryer has no place in the bedroom. And then, well, I knew that you were just too vanilla for me.
And this one? This one is for W.:
