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Thursday, December 4th, 2008
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8:08p
I remember living in rural Pennsylvania as a young child. Our family was dirt poor but our childish naivete prevented us from seeing things as they truly were. I remember that for one day during each summer our father would load us up in the back of his pickup and drive us over to some rundown town down in Appalachia. He'd drive through it real slow and we'd look at all the inbreds and drunks sprawled around and point at the mutants that roamed those gravel roads and lived in shanty wooden husks that once used to be houses. Our dad called it the "Circus" and our little excursions were dubbed as "going to the circus." For years that's what "going to the circus" meant to us. Almost a decade later, when we moved to the city, he took us to see a real circus that was traversing the nation at the time. Stuffed full of acrobats and elephants and clowns and circus seals. I was never more disappointed in my life. I wanted to see the inbred halfwit with the dead fetus of a twin still attached to his forehead drunk on homemade whiskey and lazing about with a piss stain covering the crotch of his pants.
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