The Curry County Fair

On my way home from the fair, I hallucinated that a tiny hologram of Yoda had appeared on my shoulder. Don't worry -- Karen was driving. "Not-so-young hack-writer, so bitchily you should not blog," Yoda said. "Bad for traffic it is. Rather, in light comedy your trust you should put, lest your readers full of venomous Sith decide you are."

"But Yoda," said I. "That was the crappiest county fair I have ever been too, bar none." "The positive accentuate," insisted Yoda. "The negative eliminate. With Mr. In-Between, mess not." "Oh, all right. It's a good thing I only had sixty dollars with me, since Jake would have blown through six hundred dollars in just as short a time. "And it's great no one has figured out to build a beach boardwalk here on some of the most beautiful coastline in the world. Because, you know, the wind would just blow sand into our Napalm Nachos. "I'm so happy we've picked up more unwanted stuffed animals and cheaply framed photographs of tigers, because, after all, winning prizes is great for the boy's self-image. "And, best of all, I'm tickled-to-pissing-my-pants that this was such a small fair that Jake has decided he has to go to the Del Norte County Fair next weekend. More quality time for me and the boy." Then, on my other shoulder, Evil Yoda appeared.

"Whining weenie you are," said Evil Yoda. "If father you did not want to be, pecker in pants you should have kept." (Ever notice how lines like that are only funny in Yoda-speak?) "Wait," I said. "If you're Evil Yoda, you should be telling me to speak whatever bile is on my mind." "Hell, no. Here for the crack whores at DeLancey's* I am." He darted out the window before I could recommend a good dermatologist. D. *Not the bar's actual name. And not that I would know such a thing, except by reputation.