We proudly wear our bandannas embossed with the Jolly Roger and encrusted with the sweat and blood collected from weeks before. Collectively, we have almost as many teeth as the alphabet has letters and more sores than a leper colony. Who are we? That’s right, it’s everyone’s favorite friends and neighbors: carnies. If you guessed correctly, you could be eligible to receive a carnie of your very own and never have to worry about entertaining the kids again! Just prop up a bottle of Old Crow and Grizzly Chewing Tobacco, and watch the magic begin.
I was supposed to be writing this personal opinion on the Louisiana Shrimp and Petroleum Festival held annually in scenic downtown Morgan City. After being reminded of some of the many aesthetically pleasing sights such as overflowing garbage cans and drunk rednecks line dancing to “Boot Scoot Boogy,” I decided none deserved more fanfare than the brave men and women who daily take on the task of drinking themselves into oblivion and scaring small children. Can you even believe this is a real job? “Wow,” is all I can say.
Their strategy is a simple one in the gaming arena: Get offensively drunk and target young women who want their toys — no, not those toys — though I’m sure the carnie wouldn’t protest, as a token of their guy’s love and affection. It’s all fabulously orchestrated by knowing glances exchanged between carnie and girlfriend, who will successfully guilt trip the poor sucker into wasting $50 on the futility of tossing a ping pong ball into a greased fish bowl for a 25 cent bear that, by the time you get home, looks like he’s been passed around like a cheap porno at an all boys detention center. For the less savvy game players, you can always pick up a little yellow ducky, where everyone’s a winner.
The strategy is much the same in the amusement ride section, with the added bonus of betting on which operator can get the most people just about out of the ride without seriously injuring or dismembering someone.
It’s a real Kodak moment when you see the looks of terror on your young children’s faces as they realize their seatbelts aren’t fastened correctly, and that Buddy the One Handed Carnie is more worried about his hurricane and the chick in the “I’m the bitch that fell off” t-shirt than those loose bolts now becoming apparent as the Gravitron enters Mach 5. Just as they think this is the end of their short and largely uneventful lives, Buddy fumbles for a GPC and abruptly ends the ride after 2 minutes of hell bent fury that might have required 15 minutes in a decompression chamber had the severe hyperventilation not displaced the unwanted nitrogen in their bloodstreams.
As I got older and learned what was really up with the rides and the people operating them, I stopped riding them. Seriously, I’d feel safer smoking a cigarette at the gas station, with the engine running, on a cell phone, rubbing two pieces of wool together while filling 5 gallon, non-approved gas containers in the back seat.
Of course, things could have changed in the past few years since I’ve been to the rides at Shrimp Fest; unfortunately, the experiences have made such a lasting impression that I’ll never have to return to the Festival again to see my old friends. They’ll always be there, in my mind’s eye, watching, waiting. Hopefully, all the traumatic experiences won’t be wasted when I have my own children to bestow these atrocities upon and lay the foundation for their very first personality disorder.