Currently, I don’t work during the summers. Therefore, I am always looking for ways to keep myself and my children engaged. In general, these are appropriate and child-friendly activities. This summer, I have taken my children to amusement parks, lakes, library sing-alongs, and zoos. One other activity that one generally can’t pass up during the summer is the county fair – all those tempting deep-fried foods, rides, entertainment, animals, vendors, and more. However, I had a slightly different reason for desiring fair attendance this year.
Recently, my husband and I were traveling together in the car when I suggested, “We should go to the Wisconsin Valley Fair this week.”
“Well,” he said, not even feigning enthusiasm for my suggestion, “You can take the kids during the week while I’m at work if you really want to. You know, I don’t think they should even go because it’s so busy and they are too little for most of the rides.”
“No,” I replied, “Not with the kids. You and I should go because Bret Michaels is performing this week.”
“What?” he now asked, with evident aversion and perplexity. “You want to see Bret Michaels? Why?”
|Bret Michaels -- Hilarious and Really Gross Lay|
“I want to fuck him after his set,” I answered, with a very serious and determined tone, “I think that would be hilarious.”
“What is wrong with you?” my husband asked. I believe this question was rhetorical because everyone knows there is not enough time in the world for me to accurately respond.
“C’mon,” I tried to impassion my husband to my proposal, “it would be funny. I would come home with some really great stories.”
This conversation continued, with my husband offering several reasons not to fuck Bret Michaels, both of us carrying on as though this would be an easily actualized goal for me. I should note that I’m an overweight thirty-something who buys her apparel from Coldwater Creek, as opposed to the women who typically accompany Bret -- anorexic, alcoholic twenty-two year olds who shop at Hot Topic.
At any rate, after announcing that fucking Bret Michaels would be worth it just for the great tales I would come home with, my husband crushed my splendid plan by stating, “Some strange story wouldn’t be the only thing you would come with, Angela. You better expect to come home with VD if you plan on sleeping with that dude. I’m not interested in a wife with VD.”
I then spoke in Bret’s defense, “There’s a remote possibility he’s clean, you know.”
“Oh, c’mon!” my husband chuckled, “Have you seen the menagerie of whores he fucked on Rock of Love? You gotta get a grip, Angela.”
I got a grip, and we didn’t go the fair. I didn’t ride the tilt-a-whirl or enjoy a monkey tail or elephant ear, and, most importantly, I never attempted to seduce Bret Michaels that week. One can only imagine the magnificent anecdotes I would have had to share here if I had, right? Why doesn’t my husband support my brilliant ideas? Damn him; I could be a more accomplished and celebrated writer today if only he had let me fuck Bret Michaels. How else is a woman to keep herself occupied during the summer?