The small town carnival.
Yes.
Breathe in… can you smell the corn dogs… the cotton candy… the elephant ears… and occasionally… … port-a-potties?
Carnivals.
The underbelly of the Disney-like experience.
The amusement park for the common man. A fraction of the price, a fraction of the safety.
At small town carnivals, you don’t have to hop a plane… just fight downtown congestion and park in a spot that may or may not be legal. Or donate $5 to a local cause and park in a local church parking lot.
Our own local festival was this past weekend.
I rode a ride I was certain I would die on.
I did not die.
I guess that’s obvious at this point.
But you know who was at the carnival that DID DIE?
THOUSANDS OF GOLDFISH.
I am not activist. Nor am I a pacifist.
But ON WHAT PLANET IS IT A GOOD IDEA TO GIVE PETS TO CHILDREN/TWEENS/TEENS HOPPED UP ON SODY POP AND COTTON CANDY AND ELEPHANT EARS? PEOPLE STILL WALKING SIDEWAYS FROM 8 RIDES ON THE GRAVITRON???
I have no idea why I feel so sorry for goldfish right now, but I am totally feeling bad for carnival goldfish.
I heard stories of goldfish winners throwing their goldfish bags on the ground… there were leaking bags… I can only imagine the horrors.
I even heard that near the end of the carnival *they* started giving the little goldfishies to kids who didn’t even land a ping pong ball in a fish bowl! (Disclosure: MY KID)
We had a goldfish once. Her name was Dorothy. She was The Terminator of goldfish. Or the Kim Kardashian of goldfish. She wouldn’t go away. She was high maintenance.
I’m sorry. I have nothing against Kim Kardashian. I know it’s the media that won’t give us a Kim break.
I digress.
When my son received his goldfish from the generous Carnie Guy, I was all, “NO HE DI’ENT!!! I DO NOT DO FISH. DO. NOT. NO. FISH. NO. NO. NO. FISH. NO!”
We named him Emo.
In the picture Emo looks gold-ish, but he was actually more the color of a bullet…. I felt he was a bit emo-looking to be a goldfish. Hitherhencetofore — EMO.
Because we are mafia wanna-be’s… Joel was told the fish could not come home with us.
My husband advised, “Take care of this, son.”
So he gave it to a girl. And then she didn’t want it. So she gave it to… we’re not sure.
Sorry Emo.
I kind-of feel like we should go find Emo.
Find Emo.
Hence… FINDING Emo.
Heh.
No.
I’m kidding. I do not want to find Emo.
I do not want a fish, Sam I am.
But I do have a problem with the whole carnival-people-giving-out-fish-thing.
The end.
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