I Wish I Was a Carny

It’s that time of year again. Everywhere I look, there’s state fair/harvest festival, and with it oxen pulls, blue ribbon zucchinis and carnival rides. The thrill of a hastily-assembled kiddie coaster, the risk of losing an eye at the balloon pop game, the crowd enticement of all-you-can-ride Thursday: who doesn’t want to be a carny? Nobody is killing himself to be the guy who has to write the metric ton of documentation the FDA requires before they can approve a drug for human clinical trials. It’s all about thrills and adventure.

Plus I happen to be a really big fan of funnel cakes.

My commute often takes me on roads well-travelled by Carnival-Americans (the preferred term) in the fall. Every time I see the caravan of flatbeds loaded with carnival fixins’, I wish I was one of them; smoking Mavericks, drinking Gatoraid, and sleeping in the old bunkhouse. Life on the road!

I can see by the way an entire Ferris Wheel fits on the back of a truck that the team does a pretty thorough job of breaking everything down. I then assume (because I am Commuter Colombo) that this means someone has to put the Ferris Wheen back together again at the next lot. This is probably because screaming down the highway at 75mph wouldn’t work out well for a fully-assembled carnival ride or the people driving behind it. The Octopus would take up two lanes, at least. I have assembled a Big Wheel and a bookcase, so I think I can tackle the giant whirling cages of death. I’m sure there is documentation somewhere, if I get stuck.

So as I turn off the highway (for yet another day of staring at cubicle walls), the carny trucks roll northward, and I know I need to check out the employment listings for my golden opportunity to take home $30/day while making the little children of the world happy. It is my destiny.

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