The Fabulous Crazy Mouse

It’s the last part of October in Dallas, the week in which every sap who went to the State Fair of Texas has to blog about her sappy experience using terms like “nostalgic.” Here, I’ll hit the key elements so you can skip what the other guys have written in order to get on with my much more vital assessment:

I spent a million dollars at the Midway and won a stuffed animal the size of my fist! THEN I spent THREE million dollars on food, but only because I was dying to try the fried this-and-that, which was new this year (oh, God, the fried placenta was amazing, but I was more partial to the fried mayonnaise on a stick). The rides during the first week of the fair were operated by guys who looked like Eminem clones. Freakish. The second week, though, the usual fair carnies re-appeared, lending that almost-safe feel to the questionably safe rides.

I’d like to briefly interject here that I can’t really get comfortable on a ride when the “announcer,” or “ride narrator” as I call those types, sounds more like a DJ at a topless bar than a guy who’s supposed to enhance my experience on the Whatever-It’s-Called-A-Whirl: “You wanna go faster? Let me hear ya say ‘HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!’ Uh, Uh, Let me hear ya say ‘Hell Yeah!’ C’mon, c’mon…”

Blah, blah, blah…the State Fair was magical beyond my wildest dreams; I loved Big Tex’s new outfit; and the butter sculpture was out of this world. Muy Bueno, State Fairistas!

Anyway, thats the gist of it, right? I don’t want to shove that version down your throat, though, because I have more State Fair questions than I do answers.

The crowd is what I love more than anything at the SFOT. On the people-watching scale, I give it a very solid ten. There’s awesome hair. There’s bizarre, fake jewelry. There are hoochie suits. Werd up. When someone’s brave enough to combine these three looks for one ensemble, it’s people-watching Nirvana.

Quick, Russell! She's spotted us!

Russell and I did embark on the typical fried-food bingeing and the Eminem operated rides. However, those were merely secondary to our Hoochie Suit Safari. Unfortunately, Russell wasn’t brave enough to capture the finest HS spottings through digital photography, but be advised: we arrived immediately after Bel Biv Devoe performed. For those of you too old/too young to remember BBD’s early nineties world domination, suffice it to say that they were the hoochie suit wearers’ band of choice. And how. I was initially delighted by the extreme saturation of hoochismo. (That is my Don King word of the day. Nice, yeah?)

By ten p.m., I’d seen enough to fill a hoochie suit lifetime:

Dear Hoochie Suit,

We all saw your thunder raw and uncovered, loud and uncensored, wiggly and surly. Allow me to be the first to tell you I admire your obvious confidence in reference toward your personal body image. I do. Likewise, I am equally offended that you and the whole Sorority Hooch and Sisterhood Cellulite think the world needs to be within close proximity to your mid-strip, daylight lingerie. When I left the fair, I cringed every time my brain recalled your vaginal lips, divided and forcefully squeezing themselves from the sides of your panty-sized shorts. Blech. I was not impressed by how your wardrobe selection required my brain to store unnecessary information about your second set of ass cheeks, which peeked and booed their ways from your fly girl costumes each time your strides shifted in front of me.

All was not lost, though, as your total lack of understanding how to dress for the occasion yielded the ideal opportunity for me to make future suggestions for my ever-observant ten year-old: “Isobel, THAT is called ‘camel toe.’ You don’t want that ever.”

“Right, no, euw. Mom, shhhhh!”

“THAT is what happens when a woman wears toddler clothes.”

I understand that it’s important to look like a prostitute at the state fair. After all, I, myself, often feel raped after I leave there. But you have to understand, just because you a ho, don’t mean you hafta be all skankin’. I call for a compromise:

The vagina does not have a “cleavage” area, so to speak. I am willing to witness your boobage line, but, really, can you at least tape up the lips if they’re gonna be hanging out? Also, tuck your tampon string discreetly between your butt cheeks. I hate to be so vulgar, but this is a plea for the advancement of our civilization.

If you are unwilling to adhere to the previous suggestions, fine. Wear some tights. Or panty hose. Or something less revealing like that thing J-Lo wore to the Whatever-They-Were-Awards when she accompanied P-Diddy. If you’re not sure, ask yourself, “Is this NC-17 or below?” Chances are, if you’ve seen what you’re wearing in somebody’s sex tape, it’s probably too hoochie suit-esque for the petting zoo.

Now. There is a reason the lights are turned waaay down at strip clubs (where you’d traditionally dress like this for paying customers). Darkness conceals many things, like acne scars, c-section scars, stretch marks, congenital birth defects such as six digits or tails, etc. Lights up! Boom! U G L Y. I guess what I’m asking here is for you to consider the Hoochie Suit as an after eight apparel option. There’s no need to share everything before the sun goes down, right, girls?

I would never ask you to remove the suit. That would ruin the fair for me. Instead, I ask you to wear your uniform with at least a minimum of sub par dignity.

Carry on,

KK,

State Fair Fashion Steward

All hoochie aside, the state fair WAS something else this year — totally worth wading through the sea of vaginas for the ninety dollar caramel apples alone. I rode the Texas Star with Russell and the Bell; I scrambled my brain on the Crazy Mouse with Russell and two little girls who were very Welch’s Grape Juice-y. I ate fried all-of-it. And the butter sculpture was pretty swank. Skank and all.

ALL PHOTOS BY RUSSELL