Thirty minutes at Honeyfest:
A neighbor whose property faces the festival hung a giant banner that said “This is Ultra Maga Country,” but last year they were selling ouija boards out of their front yard, so witches, be wary.
A woman waiting for french fries said, “So tell me what your tattoos mean.” Then they called her name, so she scurried over to get her order. Fries in hand, she headed back over to me and said, “I have my food so I’m less interested in your tattoos now, but maybe I’ll see you later.”
I overheard a woman say, “I’m getting braces again, I just love them so much, my dentist is like, ‘Teresa, it’s enough,’ but I can’t help myself!”
A guy told a sad story about accidentally getting paint all over his queen bee when he was just trying to mark her head, and an old bee pro said, “Did you just throw her back in there all covered in paint? Because sometimes those workers will eat it right off.”
I listed to a guy with a Johnny Cash voice sing some sappy songs in lovely way. Then he said, “My idea of heaven is that you get to do absolutely everything you want, and then the next day you wake up and don’t remember doing any of it.”
I bought $20 worth of honey and two bienenstich, which are only made on Honeyfest weekend, but I didn’t by a $63 necklace even thought I really kind of wanted it.
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