Chuckweasel Does Not Know How to Boost

Chuckweasel and I went to the Ribfest this weekend (so-called because, well, they’re making ribs), and I learned a few things I thought I’d share with y’all.

First of all, you know you’re in Wes’BYGAWD Virginny when you walk into an outdoor fair-type event and the FIRST thing you see is a sign that says “Get Your Picture With a Critter” (which, in local parlance, is pronounced “Gitcher Pitcher Witta Critta.”  You know you’re with Chuckweasel when he takes a “pitcher” of the sign for future proof that it exists.  You know you’re with me when one of the “critters” is evidently a 100-lb. rat and I emphatically state that we will NOT be looking at that, not no way, not no how, but then spend the rest of the evening wondering about it — like what does it eat, how did that happen, what kind of rat is it, ARE THERE OTHERS?

Also, it may be rude to get the rib sampler from more than one place at once, since it means at some point, you will be in somebody’s line holding someone ELSE’S ribs, but Imma still freakin’ do it, ’cause those lines are LOOOONG, yo’.  And it may be even ruder to EAT said ribs in someone else’s line, but I needed sustenance, shut up!  And it wouldn’t be fair to that rib team if I let their ribs get cold before I judged them.  AND JUDGE I DID.  Not officially, just as a loud and intoxicated amateur.

I also learned that a child Elvis impersonator is sad and pathetic, but when you discover it is NOT a child-Elvis but in fact a MIDGET-Elvis, it goes from sad to terrifying.  On the plus side, I have now seen a black Elvis, a female Elvis, and a midget-Elvis, so I think I only need Asian-Elvis to complete the list.  Oh, crap — I also need Hispanic-Elvis and both kinds of Indian…

But the MOST important lesson is — Chuckweasel does not know how to boost.   Stay with me here:  Rather than step over and around people to get to the empty seats at the back of the little bleachers, I decided to clamber up from the back.  They were only about chest-high, and I had been listening to my good friend Mr. Coors for some time by that point, so I thought I could make it.  So I heaved one leg over and was valiantly trying to shove myself up with my arms when I felt Chuckweasel give me a boost from behind.  And I thought “aw, how sweet, he’s helping me up,” and leaned into the boost… THAT WAS NO LONGER THERE.  Yes, he quit boosting mid-boost.   

Now, HE claims he thought I made it and that’s why he quit, but the girl sitting ahead of me called bullshit — she said I totally had it UNTIL the boosting incident, when my misplaced trust led to my downfall.  Dammit, Chuckweasel!  Either boost or don’t boost, you can’t just take it away midway!

I am relatively uninjured, and I even managed to stay on my feet, but I do have some lovely bleacher-shaped bruises today… which Chuckweasel saw and could not remember how I got them.  Maybe Mr. Miller had led him a bit astray as well… or maybe he’s trying to murder me.  AGAIN.

Best line of the night:  I started sneezing uncontrollably when we walked in and Chuckweasel says, completely deadpan:  “You allergic to poor people?”