Anyways, summer is here and what does that mean for the lovely residents of my quaint hometown?? The Balloon Festival. We also have a Melon Fest celebrating the priceless, rare and one-of-a-kind melon known only to thrive in our town's soil but melons are the world's dumbest fucking fruit, so they're not even worth mentioning. Anything that tastes and has the same consistency as cheap Save-A-Lot conditioner is damned disgusting in my book.
Now, I'm not gonna lie, hot air balloons are pretty sweet, especially the ones modeled after the archaically original models. You know, version -1.0. Like this guy:
My four-year old mind is also admittedly fascinated by the balloons that look like animals or hotdogs or some dumb-ass mascot or whatever. And it is pretty cool to see the balloons sailing overhead for basically the rest of June, July and a little of August. They also have balloon races which are pretty fun because the balloons will sometimes land in your backyard or a parking lot or golf course (Question: is it even technically a race if they are that slow??). One time, a balloon landed in our neighbor's soy garden (ack! yeah, I really did just type that...) which was awesome. For whatever dumb-ass reason we also have a carnival parked in the high school parking lot for a month to celebrate hot air balloons, but how a carnival is related to the balloons is beyond me. Carnival people are strange. Oh wait, that's right...those money-snatching, face paint wearing creeps are after my precious Lincolns. No wonder a ride of the ferris wheel or the thrice-damned whirly-gig costs $7.
When it comes down to it, the balloon fest is pretty stupid. All my over-imaginative self can think about when I lay out on the picnic clothed grass to watch the balloons ascend is a late-19th century lawn tea party. Ladies dressed in frilly gowns and shaded by ruffled parasols daintily sipping tea from delicate cups and gentlemen outfitted in tailed coats and adorned with top hats with pleasant murmurs, muted giggling and the clanking of pots and tea cups as ambient noise. Basically a live action version of Seurat's "A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte" except with everyone staring heavenwards, their eyes glazed over in fascination at the lumbering sky giants floating lackadaisically overhead. Now I love tea just as much as the next, and I would kill for a quality corset to keep my bazookas charming, but ruffles?? Blushing ruffles and bite-sized cucumber sandwiches resting on paper-thin blue and white fine China. No thanks. Jesus. Then of course, I'm jolted into the present by the distinctive plopping of an ice-cream cone and a child's outraged scream and am yet again condemned to reality. A reality involving a copious and sickening amount of small children racing around and squealing at the top of their lungs in
And then, as I'm mid-swallow in enjoying chasing down my Advil with water, some idiot decides to park their stroller on my picnic blanket and plop their fat ass down. My blanket! Every damned year. Who said you could drop a squat on my temporary residence? Who?!? People, do I really need to embroider the four corners of my blanket with "No Trespassing" and "Beware Dog" logos?? Shockingly, I don't welcome your grubby, moochey self onto my blanket. You should really stop doing that before I invest in a taser. Because I will. Seriously.
People, you're stupid. Nobody likes you. Go away now please. individual persons? You're alright. But people? Ugh. go boil and shrink your head so at least that way I can make profit off of your stupidity by selling them in an exotic 'tribal' shop.
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