Life is not a fair

Life is not a fair. It’s not a state fair with the world’s tallest man surreptitiously tucking his pant legs over rusty stilts. It’s not a county fair with a line of drooling would-be competitors waiting for their chance to eat the largest pancake East of the Mississippi. There are no dunk tanks scattered around, deep enough to submerge a fully grown adult and ruining their well-pressed suit, but shallow enough that no one’s drowning. Not today. 

There’s no cotton candy to take the place of immense pines, synthetically coniferous and artificially flavored so they can survive each change in seasons. They say cockroaches can survive anything, but cotton candy isn’t far behind. Corndogs are nowhere to be found either. Their pristine outer layer resembling a well-known genus of a monocotyledonous flowering plant. You might know it as a “cattail.”

There aren’t large families of carnival-folk, raising generation after generation of street-wise hustlers. People who learn the merits of weighted milk bottles and rigging games of so-called change as soon as they can walk.

There are no high wires from which acrobats of varying skill levels performing dangerous maneuvers hundreds of feet in the air for bored elephants and angry lions, annoyed at being literally upstaged by goofballs in neon-colored unitards. They're just not there.

There aren’t humungous stuffed animals scattered about, the only prize available in this cashless dystopia. There aren’t raffle tickets. There aren’t really raffles either. Everything’s digital now. There aren’t old roller coasters that specialize in whiplash, turning away people based on height. No wobbly Ferris wheels or flashing neon lights. 

The thing is, there are clowns. Kind of. So they don’t always wear makeup, but they do make us cry. They frequently act out, no longer needing balloon animals to irritate us. 

And boy are there freaks. They’re everywhere. Turn on the TV and flip to any channel. They’re running things. They’re in charge. Calling the shots. Taking the shots. Posing for shots. Doing some shots. 

But alas, they aren’t always easy to spot. Not like they once were. Gone are the days of Lobster Boy and his merry band of marauding crustaceans clawing their way through the country. When his ilk were found elsewhere besides your overflowing crystal bowl of shrimp fully drenched in cocktail sauce. Things are different now. It's a good thing though. Freaks push culture. They don't do it through parades anymore, but with pop-up ads and targeted banners. We should all have a little freak in us. Shellfish allergies notwithstanding. 

Try not to freak out.