I was ducking shoulders and slinging beer, clutching my wallet and knee-stepping babies in a violent current of furious bodies. My colleagues had long been swallowed. "Charlatans!" I yelled to the vendors. "I want nothing!"

It was the 28^th Annual Pensacola Seafood Festival, and the whole town had showed up to get it on: used middle school teachers and drooping wives, hardened contractors, assglancing military, and even the shirtless ghost of Freddie Mercury. The Seville Elite was there, too, but understandably looking a little messy and uncomfortable.

Eventually I was ejected from the crowd - spat out and spun around and pushed into a strange clearing. It must have been the children's area, because dozens of them were being seated at a makeshift trough. Most were face first in French Fries & Powdered Sugar, pounding their fists for more soda. Some were on horrible leashes, red-faced and crying as their frustrated mothers barked orders into multiple live cell phones. It was all becoming a sick, loud reality far too quickly, and my stomach began to turn. I moved toward the sound of a slide guitar.

Welcome to the south. Couples neck shamelessly between long, orgasmic bites of rolled lamb meat sandwiches, and everyone raises their glass to a shameless country circus act. The lead singer's hand drips down his cowboy hat at the climax of his last number, and I am convinced that this is a trademark move. All the single thirtysomethings coo and shake their wine. At this point, three dollars for a singular Budweiser is starting to sound reasonable. I backtrack for the beer tent, tackling solicitors and shouting gibberish to anyone who managed to catch my eye. I have seen enough.

            A flood of relief as familiar faces stand out â€" senses of humor I know and love. My colleagues have survived through equal stories of consumption and gross horror. "I've called us a cab," Stu said. "We've got to get the hell out of here. Get your beer, quick."

            Yes, I will tie a rope to the end of a colorful stick, dip it in soap, and have barefoot children wave it around to make large bubbles. I could tour the country moving from one half-ass town to the next, selling this and other worthless contraptions for $16 dollars a unit and make an honest living. I would learn to enjoy chicken on a stick, and eventually marry a bad artist who would buy my funnel cakes. One day I might find myself back in Pensacola and wonder if I've been here before. Disappear and go native. Lose myself in a crowd every time. The good life at a dangerous price.

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