Road to Badger Boy: Part 11

I AIN’T NO JACK KEROUAC: Through Indiana in da’ back o’ a station wagon, in an’ outta’ Kentucky ridin’ bitch ona’ Harley, slidin’ through Missouri strapped ta’ a luggage rack, across Arkansas on da’ lap o’ a man in a motorized wheelchair, den’ right inta’ Texas on da’ handlebars ofa’ Schwinn.

Nows bys the time I made it ta’ da’ Texas State Fairgrounds I’d missed Badger Boy by two days. As I stared at da’ strewn garbage o’ a weekends worth o’ torn ride tickets, cotton candy cones, Tilt-a-Whirl spew an’ gnawed corndog sticks. Dats when it dawned on me… corndogs! All dis trouble was over corndogs! Yeah, dat’ weasely demon spawn monkey spunk Sanders left me fer dead in da’ land o’ leotard clad French Canadians, buts it all started wit da’ corndogs.

Whens Sanders joined ups wit Badger Boy Carnival Extravaganza and Hootenanny ‘e was pimply faced seventeen year old surly punk wit his black leather clothes an’ da’ attitude of a baboon wit hemorrhoids. Buts Sweats said ‘e saw sum thin’ in da’ kid and putt’em on da’ corndog cart. Nows food carts are usually reserved fer da’ second ringers who’d been wit Badger Boy long enough ta’ be trusted not ta’ wiz on da’ snow cones or dip dar’ dangly bits in da’ Orange Pow® dispenser.

Sos Sanders on his first day decides ta’ set up shop right in front o’ da’ “Whack-em-Cats” booth blockin’ da’ rubes frum da’ cat wackin’ action. I decided ta’ calmly an’s politely inform Sanders dat’ his cart is blockin’ ma’ cash-flow an’s if ‘e didn’t move it I’d be playin’ hide da’ corndog wit his rectal cavity. He mumbled sum thin’ ‘bout not takin’ order frum toothless hillbillies an’ dats’ when I started chasin’ him wit an absurdly large Bart Simpson©®TM porcelain piggybank. ‘E gave me da’ slip around da’ “Slappin’ Sammy” booth an’s I just moseyed back ta’ ma’ booth, but I’s didn’ get five feet befer I heard a horrible crash behind me.

I rans ta’ da’ scene an’ found Sanders unconscious an’ pined under da’ corndog cart wit most o’ his torso deep-fried an’ scorched wit corndog batter. After da’ ambulance had takin’ ‘em away I found out frum Bo-Diddles dat’ he saw Sanders runnin’ franticly past da’ gard gate fer da’ Ferris wheel an’ he collided wit’ a carriage on da’ downswing. He flew five yards wit da’ cart on toppa’ him dowsing ‘es body in boiling fryer oil, corndog batter an’ fixins’. Da’ worse bit was how delicious he smelt.

All dat was two years ago, but it alls makes sense now. He’s been harboring a resentment ta’ me believing it was ma’ fault fer da’ demotion ta Poop-Patrol at da’ pettin’ zoo, havin’ ‘es pay ducted ta’ pay fer da’ corndog cart, da’ endless skin grafts an’ probably fer the new nickname I gave ‘em; Kentucky Fried Sanders. Sum people ares so petty.