One of the ways that Amber convinced me to extend my stay with her last month was by promising me a trip to the Kansas City Renaissance Festival, an annual six-week-long extravagance of corsets, themed sideshow games, mead, people on stilts, and something called The Royal Smoker.
I stayed, we went, and it was a riot of a day. To blog every entertaining moment would be to create a post Tolstoyian in length and potentially not safe for work (there were some awe-inspiring reaching-for-the-skies corseted bosoms present, I’ll tell you that for free), so I’ll try to keep this of both manageable length and PG-rating.
Speaking of PG, I would like the outfit on the right, please, so that I can twirl around in public singing “Little town, it’s a quiet village / Ev’ry day, like the one before…”
The first sight I encountered upon entering the Renaissance Festival was a man draped in multiple snakes. Being Australian, I am of course used to fending off poisonous slitherers with my bare hands, but the little girl being yanked away from the snakes by her mother was clearly lacking such valuable life skills.
There were a wealth of ye olde food options available at the Renaissance Festival, but giant turkey legs do not fill my soul with glee. Giant pickles, however, are another story.
Keeping the aforementioned PG
-censorship-rating in mind, I shall simply state that pickles are hilarious, and vehemently deny the existence of any other pickle photos. End scene.
Well, except for pickle photos that also incorporate THE TARDIS.
After all, if a time-period anomaly is going to show up at a Renaissance Festival, it’s going to be the TARDIS. Because then it’s not really an anomaly at all, is it? Exactly.
Say hi to Amber! Hi Amber! The blueberry beer in her cup was surprisingly delicious, despite the fact that I initially found it too sweet for my tastes. (My favourite drink that day was a combination of alcoholic cider and Oktoberfest beer, though. I’m one classy broad.)
Say hi to Matt! Hi Matt! Looks like you’ve got some tasty nuts there, Matt. End scene.
So, fried pickles? Didn’t float my boat. When warm, pickles become unpleasantly squelchy-like, which makes me think of Roald Dahl’s snozzcumbers. I say to you: shudder.
I also say to you: olives stuffed with pickled garlic on a stick are serious business.
Less serious are slices of chocolate-covered cheesecake on a stick (thanks for being the hand model, Hillary). This was far better than I expected from pre-packaged festival fare. We were particularly amused by the hidden graham cracker crust.
With sweet and salty cravings happily sated, it was time for Amber, Matt, Hillary, and I to make our way to The Royal Smoker for an hour of bawdy songs and jokes, belly dancing, wine, snacks, and cigars.
I merely contemplated the cigar in a PG manner, of course. If I’d done anything but contemplate, I might’ve hallucinated wacky sights like, say, a Mermaid Matt.
Wait. Never mind.