Heading to the Fairgrounds, I find I have just enough intestinal fortitude to share a single deep-fried delight (A plain but weighty elephant ear this year. 2014 was the year of the maple-bacon funnel cake), but a perhaps endless appetite for the livestock aisles.
There was a bit of drama among the fowl. Imagine the scene at home for this guy:
Setting: A modest living space, well-lit but with very sparse furnishings. Our hero enters in a state of greater-than-usual dishevelment and begins in a rush:
"I'm ADOPTED?! Mother, how could you let me go to the Fair, knowing what would happen? You know what? I'm GLAD to be going to the slaughterhouse. You ruined my life!"
The scene is a long dining table. The murmur of voices diminishes, and from the head of the table, a deep male voice rings out:
"So, it appears that Junior here is NOT a Cochin? Marge, is there something you want to tell us?"
And in the hot-headed world of the Telenovela:
" 'Cochin' mi culo! Más como cochina!"