infants

The Great NYS Fair

An apology to our readers: the following blog entry was inadvertently published whilst still in draft form therefore the post made as much sense as a grown woman covering a tween goat-herder for a news story. Here is the post in all its glorious entirety.

The main reason I agreed to have a baby was to have an excuse to never go anywhere again. But something happens when you have a child. You see nothing strange about keeping a log of your infant’s bowel movements. You use the word “poopy” a lot. You attend functions willingly that you normally wished you had a good excuse, like having a baby at home, to avoid attending. So I’m bringing my son to the NYS Fair.

I hate the fair.

I have only been a few times and the occasions have always been unpleasant.

Once I followed a 13-year-old goat herder around for a riveting news story about spending 14 hours with a 13-year-old goat herder (spoiler: lots of sitting in lawn chairs and looking at goats). I was a correspondent for the local newspaper so I was being paid for the article not my time–14 hours for $25, or $0.56 an hour. After about 20 minutes, you run out of questions to ask (so…why goat-herding?) and it’s mainly sitting around being uncomfortable, a situation made even worse by the powerful aroma of goat shit.

Another time, I paid $2 to see the “world’s littlest woman.” Having just left the Ripley’s Believe it or Not Tent, I thought I would see a Barbie Doll in a fish bowl–the Ripley’s tent was full of fakety fake fakery, but I chose to believe it rather than not, man–so I was horrified to come into the tent, and see an actual person sitting in a toddler-sized armchair, watching a mini-television and eating dinner. She was propped up on a table to be at eye-level. She looked wearily at me and said “hello.” I know I had a horrified look on my face because I just paid $2 to gawk at another human being who happens to be a little short. Instead of saying “I am a horrible, horrible person,” I mumbled “hi” and got the hell out of there.

Now for some completely illogical reason, I’m all pepped to go and expose my son to the urine-and-fecal-soaked barns and midway, the freak shows run by the worst people alive and the crown jewel–the butter sculpture, which I hope is just a giant stick of butter.

I am a horrible, horrible person.

Is my sister’s boyfriend or his brother my baby’s dad?

Who hasn’t asked themselves that very question at least once?

So Vicki slept with Jamal who is her sister Sara’s boyfriend, but she also slept with Dominque who is Jamal’s brother, and someone’s sperm connected with Vicki’s egg, which is where we get the succinct title for today’s Maury. Maury Povich has an endless supply of guests who find themselves in this predicament and an endless supply of manila envelopes in which to store the paternity results.  There is yelling and pointing. There is bleeping of words. There is a video feed of a small child who deserves his or her own episode  on Maury titled “Are These Really My Parents? Jesus Christ.”  There are sometimes back flips. It is “incredible” and “shocking” according to Maury, but probably not in the way he means.

Maury asks some good questions of Vicki, like: “What’s your relationship with your sister like now?”

Vicki: “It’s not like it’s used to be.” Yes.

In a pre-taped interview Sara comes to this realization: “I need to know if my niece is my boyfriend’s baby.” Yes.

And that is where we find ourselves now, waiting for Maury to reveal the results. Will Sara dump Jamal (Maury made sure to ask that. It’s too soon to say, says Sara)? Will Jamal punch Dominque? Possible. Will someone yell? Yes, there is always the yelling. There are also either one or 23 other couples in similar predicaments in this episode, but the yelling has caused them to blur together into a mess of lost dreams and unopened condoms.

And we will have to continue to wait because Maury is milking a second show out of this tomorrow. Here is my guess: Everyone loses.