If you’ll remember correctly, and I’m sure you will, last year about this time we went to the Northwest Washington Fair. It was great fun and we decided to give it another go.
It was different this time though because last year the boys were but a wee 11 and 12 years old. This meant we shadowed them on all the rides, waited with them in ridiculously long lines for those rides and just generally never let them out of our sight — so great is my fear of the general public, especially the general public when whipped into a frenzy by adrenaline producing thrill rides and pure sugar fair food favorites like funnel cake and elephant ears.
This year was different than last because they’re in their early twenties now and perfectly capable of going off on their own. Or so Matt told me anyway. He doesn’t know about the perverts and the drugs and the werewolves though. Obviously. As a result, I didn’t get many pictures of the boys on rides…or, you know, doing much of anything. I hope Matt is happy now. I hope he’s satisfied. I hope werewolves eat his independence-promoting heart out.
Anyway! The fair is a good place for watching people, in lieu of, you know, being able to watch your own children that is. (Werewolves. Heart. Out.)
You never know what you’ll see.
Plus, where else can you get this?
After that, a few of these:
Then, you’ll surely need this:
Good thing they sell it at the fair, huh?
Jacob, coming off the Gravitron:
And then, of course, Matt, on his favorite ride of all:
the Republican Party booth! Hooray…..!
and then I headed back to the motion sickness booth again. Fucking useless werewolves.
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6 Responses to Fairly Off Parents
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A Woman's Manifesto
Because a woman’s work is never done.
and is underpaid, or unpaid, or boring, or repetitious,
and we’re the first to get fired,
and what we look like is more important than what we do.
And if we get raped its our fault
and if we get beaten we must have provoked it
and if we raise our voices we’re nagging bitches
and if we enjoy sex we’re nymphos
and if we don’t we’re frigid
and if we love women it’s because we can’t get a real man
and if we ask our doctor too many questions we’re neurotic or pushy
and if we expect childcare we’re selfish
and if we stand up for our rights we’re aggressive and un-feminine
and if we don’t we’re typical weak females
and if we want to get married we’re out to trap a man
and if we don’t we’re unnatural
and because we still can’t get an adequate, safe contraceptive, but men can walk on the moon
and if we can’t cope or don’t want a pregnancy we’re made to feel guilty about abortion
and for lots and lots of other reasons
we are part of the women’s liberation movement.- Joyce Stevens, International Woman’s Day, 1975.
Man Vs. Heart Attack
I am somewhat worried about the dude on Man v Food. He isn’t looking so good these days and putting that food away like that can’t be good for him.
Just a normal fun day out. We sneaked a ride on the pretend train last year when no children were around to stop us.
As well you should. Why should they get all the fun? Damn kids. (And werewolves.)
HA! Werewolves don’t tangle with guys wearing shooting shirts! You of all people should know that by now. Cut the cord, and let those boys be boys.
MM
uh huh. And what did he pay you to take his side? Werewolves have no sense of fashion, they care not about shirts you fool!
And…uh. YOU cut the cord.
(There. I sure told you.)
HA! and HA! again. such witty repartee. I thought that was *you* in that first pic, until I looked twice…I was wondering what Matt had done with his hair, though…
Ain’t you never heard no Warren Zevon? Werewolves of London?? “…and his hair was perfect….” “…he’ll rip your lungs out, Jim. Ha–I’d like to meet his tailor”. So there.
I’ll be more than happy to cut the cord. Send them boys down to spend the summer with Uncle Meanie next year…as an added bonus, Monsta-baby will be here, too. We’ll learn ‘em all kinds of stuff.
MM
oh! Ha ha. You’re sooooo funny. My sides. Help me, Jesus, I’m bustin’ up!
I only wear the colorful dreads, tats and leather for *really* special occasions. Like church.
And you and Satan’s little helper just stay away from my boys. I don’t need them drunk up on Fat Tire, cruisin’ the bayou for cheap wimmin and nutria pelts and a big ol stinky ceegar hangin’ from their bottom lip.
I meant cut your own cord, Mr. Hard Rock. But you knew that, dintcha?
(lymi)
KK