Wednesday, August 27, 2008
A fair is a veritable smorgasbord-orgasbord-orgasbord
Our foray into Real Estate has truly been the bread and butter of our summer. It's been all: Who wants this house and do we want that house. Big creepy words like: appraisal, equity -- and scariest of all: packing & moving.
Well, the latest happs is thusly: We sold this shiz. We bought new shiz. Report to follow.
So on a recent Sunday when we were unceremoniously booted from our old shiz so that the soon-to-be owners could poke around all our nooks and crannies for the afternoon with a home inspector, the Mister and I put on some sunblock and headed to the county fair.
Just so I can sound as snotty as possible, it wasn't my county's fair. A county I'm not entirely sure even has a fair. I mean, what would they have there? Vendors selling tapas and starbucks and tents with software engineers and traffic cameras? No, no, we went one county over, which apparently was enough distance to make it all rural and backwoodsy.
Please to enjoy my photodocudrama: The Prince William County Fair.
Honestly, what on earth could be cuter than a pile of sleepy bunny babies?
A rooster who uses too much gel, clearly.
Baby goats. Super cute.
It wasn't so much the cute baby chicks I was aiming to capture here, but the jaded sarcasm of some 4-H youth who evil-ed out the egg. A bad egg, indeed.
A goat barber. No more of Billy Goat's gruff, I'd say.
A cow's butt. But I didn't have to tell you that.
The look the cow gave me when she saw I was taking a picture of her butt.
My best attempt at looking farm-ish.
Ain't nothing nearly as funny as a picture of someone looking like they're milking an unsuspecting cow. Oh how my Mister argued about posing for this, but it would appear by his smug expression that the gent did protest too much.
Uh, hi. I didn't write it. I just read it, giggled a lot and spent a lot of time trying to get the best picture of it.
*Insert obligatory black and white cock joke here*
State laws about baby chick minimums? Is that the legislation my tax dollars support?
I appreciate the honesty of this sign. No fancy names, no pretense. Because in the end, fried dough doesn't need to be called a doughnut or a funnel cake or a twinkie to be tasty. At its most basic level, it's just fried dough. And we love it.
What else would you get at Fry City?
Is it wrong that they chose to use a chicken figurine to hock their chicken dinners? I dunno, it seemed wrong.
And in case we forgot where we were for a second, thank God for the 12 year old who submitted the confederate confection. While I'm sure s/he was silently applauded for their loyalty to the stars and bars, it would have been uncouth to give them a ribbon. Holy crap I love cake, though, regardless of its political messages. I'd really be happy to debate state's rights while eating that cake.
Well, the latest happs is thusly: We sold this shiz. We bought new shiz. Report to follow.
So on a recent Sunday when we were unceremoniously booted from our old shiz so that the soon-to-be owners could poke around all our nooks and crannies for the afternoon with a home inspector, the Mister and I put on some sunblock and headed to the county fair.
Just so I can sound as snotty as possible, it wasn't my county's fair. A county I'm not entirely sure even has a fair. I mean, what would they have there? Vendors selling tapas and starbucks and tents with software engineers and traffic cameras? No, no, we went one county over, which apparently was enough distance to make it all rural and backwoodsy.
Please to enjoy my photodocudrama: The Prince William County Fair.
The critters: Cute, but smelly.
Honestly, what on earth could be cuter than a pile of sleepy bunny babies?
A rooster who uses too much gel, clearly.
Baby goats. Super cute.
It wasn't so much the cute baby chicks I was aiming to capture here, but the jaded sarcasm of some 4-H youth who evil-ed out the egg. A bad egg, indeed.
A goat barber. No more of Billy Goat's gruff, I'd say.
A cow's butt. But I didn't have to tell you that.
The look the cow gave me when she saw I was taking a picture of her butt.
My best attempt at looking farm-ish.The bad farm jokes: And there were many.
Ain't nothing nearly as funny as a picture of someone looking like they're milking an unsuspecting cow. Oh how my Mister argued about posing for this, but it would appear by his smug expression that the gent did protest too much.
Uh, hi. I didn't write it. I just read it, giggled a lot and spent a lot of time trying to get the best picture of it.
*Insert obligatory black and white cock joke here*The educational aspects:I mean, really, Who knew?
State laws about baby chick minimums? Is that the legislation my tax dollars support?The viddles: or rather, the artery busters.
I appreciate the honesty of this sign. No fancy names, no pretense. Because in the end, fried dough doesn't need to be called a doughnut or a funnel cake or a twinkie to be tasty. At its most basic level, it's just fried dough. And we love it.
What else would you get at Fry City?
Is it wrong that they chose to use a chicken figurine to hock their chicken dinners? I dunno, it seemed wrong.
And in case we forgot where we were for a second, thank God for the 12 year old who submitted the confederate confection. While I'm sure s/he was silently applauded for their loyalty to the stars and bars, it would have been uncouth to give them a ribbon. Holy crap I love cake, though, regardless of its political messages. I'd really be happy to debate state's rights while eating that cake.The carnies: who could not have appeared any more uninvolved from their task of ensuring the paying public's safety on their rinky-stinky, death trap rides.
# posted by Cathy @ 11:58:00 PM 
