If you're arriving via search engine or through feverish word-of-mouth because this is the page with the World's Smallest Woman, you can read the first half of the Great American Novel by clicking here.
This is the outside wall of a Hall of Mirrors attraction, where kids navigate through a series of clear windows (not a single mirror, for the record) on their path to victory. I'm a sucker for carnival art -- from the smoking devilbeast gracing the top of Dante's Inferno to the more simplistic mural shown here, it's the kind of thing that makes me want to search Amazon for "carnival+art." This particular scene, obviously painted at least 600 years ago, depicts everything from Satan to scantily clad women, some of which trying put their heads up their crotches. To present an extra degree of wackiness, notice how the painter added a dog catching a pancake in midair for no apparent reason.
We'd considered going into the Hall of Not Mirrors briefly, only to realize that the sole exit from the ride was a twirling plastic slide sized only for the smallest of kids. Boy, would our faces have been reddish had we gone in there without knowing that, huh? I mean holy cow, we could've ended up like this guy...
Yes, scary old man stands tall at a balcony in the Hall of Not Mirrors' upper sector, calling for help because he can't fit the ass in the kiddy slide. As an aside, I can't believe the ride attendant let him into the thing with that lemonade. In general, Hall of Mirrors attractions double as a great spot to piss inconspicuously if all the bathrooms are full and/or covered in stuff you don't want to sit on or stand anywhere near.
Nobody around us was pointing to or outright laughing at the poor guy, but he still commanded a lot of attention. I think it was the way he stood completely oblivious to the fact that he had no way out of the Hall of Mirrors. We didn't stick around for the story's climax, but I imagine three fire trucks and an AT&T crane being somehow involved.
Ever since American Gladiators, I've wanted to try one of these crawly wally things. Never actually went and did it for fear of anyone watching me fail miserably, but I continue to find climbing a thirty-foot resin wall with straps all over my private parts in a public setting an intriguing idea. For his part, the kid shown here managed to make it halfway up the not-a-mountain without having any pant-slippage. After that, everyone saw his Princess Fiona underwear and laughed. One guy commented that there were two moons out that night, but I think he borrowed it from Steve Martin.
Fantastic prizes, eh? It's like I'm thumbing through the Sears Wishbook here.
Bootleg Scooby Doo doll. Homemade "Bling Bling" T-shirt. A combination that could only be made worse with the addition of flesh eating maggots. And who's to say they're not in there already?
To win bootleg Scooby, all ya had to do was guess some bitch's weight and trust them to give you the correct answer even though you never actually saw the scale. Suffice to say, Bootleg Bling Bling Scooby didn't leave park grounds that night. He just hung there, taunting suburbia with urban delight. And looking really damn stupid.
Here's another spinning ride; one of the most common types, it's the kind where you sit in this circular coaster thing, going faster and faster to a score of really bad and really loud music from your local radio station before someone shouts "SWITCH" and you repeat the process, this time spinning backwards. I used to go on these a lot, but in retrospect I don't quite understand the attraction of making oneself extremely dizzy. I could do that for free, and I could do it without sitting in a cart full of old, dried up vomit. Nobody would raid my groin on a safety belt check, either. Come on, we've all had this experience...
Them: Hey is your seatbelt on or what? You: Hey quit raiding my groin.
"Knoxy's Concession" presents perhaps the most controversial of all carnival games: the one where you win a goldfish in a little plastic bag filled with two ounces of water. I've often read of the degree of animal cruelty shown here and why the events should be made illegal, and it's tough to argue with the protesters' sentiments. We saw plenty of kids running around the place with little dying fish in little plastic bags -- even if there was an adequate amount of water, you're not supposed to keep 'em in those bags for anything longer than a song. It's easy to imagine that many of the fish remained in their plastic prisons for hours upon hours, perhaps left in someone's car as they nightcapped at a local diner after the carnival. Pretty gross if ya think about it. Besides, they're only giving away feeder goldfish which very literally cost a dime each at any pet store. Why inconvenience yourself with an ill-timed addition to your family at 20-30 times the price? Jeez, it's not like they're Glofish or anything.
There's one thing that's always troubled me about the protesters' guide to fish salvation. In their words, the only way to combat such activity is by not playing the games. Please! Like my two bucks is going to make that much of a difference? Screw that, I'm winning a fucking fish!
The goal: buy a troth full of ping pong balls, throw them at a field of tiny fishbowls until one of 'em sinks in. Simple enough.
There's my balls, yo. I shouldn't have put this picture on the Internet.
Yep, I won. Took five bucks and thirty balls, but we're now the proud owners of a baby goldfish. Much to my surprise, he survived the trip home. And I swear that we didn't spend two hours getting drunk at a local Chinese restaurant after the carnival. We went straight home to take care of the fish. I swear.
George: Dwuhhh I'ma win this one!
Patty: Wahuh not while I'm in me lucky seat #5 swahuhuh!
George: Hey we're the only two people playing. I don't think we get a big prize with only two people.
Patty: Swahuh maybe you should ask the guyyyyy swahuh?
George: Okay. Hey guy, what do you win if there's only two players?
Game Attendant: THIS GAME DEDICATED TO REAGANNNNN!
I'm just leaving this picture in because it came out nice. I've got nothing to say about it. Or maybe I'm just not telling.
Seems like the only people willing to fork ten bucks over to Reithoffer's psychic friends were six-years-old or even younger. What an easy night for the fake psychics. Just tell 'em you see Playstations in their future, and bam, you're done. By the time kids hit fourteen, they want you to guess what color panties they're wearing and whether or not they'll marry the hot substitute English teacher. The woman in the white coat was the designated "fetcher" -- she didn't predict the future, but she made sure those who could were presented with hog-tied park patrons who really just wanted a hot dog.
The best part was how the mystical head statue shown on the psychic's table had the Macy's logo etched around the neck. I predict tomfoolery.
Okay, get your drums and drumroll for me. It's time. It's time for the feelgood event of the summer. It's time to see photos that will forever change how you view society. It's time for the World's Smallest Woman. Do the drumroll thing, this really warrants it.
Let me preface this by saying that I had no idea such a thing would appear. I've been to this carnival for a number of years, but it's the first time anything resembling a true sideshow attraction ever popped up. From afar, it seemed like one of the more mundane things going on at the park. We didn't know what the series of light blue houses signified, nor did we put any stock into finding out what. As we passed by a bit later, I finally titled my head just enough to catch a glimpse of the sign that would soon reshape the world and make it more suitable for midget women...
Oh my God. As shocking and exciting as it was to read this, I still had some doubts. I've paid to visit with half-women/half-snakes at carnivals before, only to be greeted by middle-aged gals sticking their heads out from holes carved out of snake-shaped paper mache statues, drinking from McDonald's soda cups. Something like that still would've been interesting, but not as surreal as seeing the true World's Smallest Women. So, we pay up and we go inside, not really knowing what to expect. From the moment we stepped beyond the guardrail, it seemed like all noise and movement left the park, and all that was left in the universe was us, a short path, and a tiny-sized being of unknown nature. Our hearts jumped with every step closer to the back, and when we finally stood at the foot of the treasure, our eyes lit up like so many flickering orange carnival bulbs. It really was the World's Smallest Woman. And it was the most depressing sight we would ever see...
CLICK THE PICTURE TO SEE HER SUPER-SIZED!
Folks, I don't know where to start. Named Gloria, the midget was indeed extremely tiny -- dunno if she's the legitimate champion of smallness, but she's close enough regardless. Donning a decrepit blue dress with hair as frazzled as our souls, her bright pink shoes only temporarily blinded us from the reeking filthhole she was forced to do business in. Sort of a cross between a tiger cage and a Smurf's bedroom, it was a ragtag bunch of miniature novelty furniture, along with a small television set, basket for tips, an inexplicable 3' Tiki God statue and, shoot me, a fly swatter. It felt cruel, unusual -- like that Mad About You episode that was one straight twenty-minute take of Paul and Helen listening to Offscreen Baby Crying.
Now as awful as the picture above looks, I challenge you to click on it for the bigger version. There you'll see the full extent of misery and woe, including a sign that details how throwing a dollar into Gloria's tip basket will get her to stand up. This was absolutely sick, though I was a happy hypocrite and snapped as many pictures as possible anyway.
Other relics strewn about Gloria's cage included a rubber duck, gallon jug of water (a urinal?), framed photos of Gloria's family, a red handkerchief, a midget, bug spray and at least one coin bank fashioned from a coconut. Some of you might think Gloria has it tough, but let's talk about this for a second. The girl has it easy. Check out the typical job requirements for a career as a dentist:
JOB REQUIREMENTS: There are two equal degrees for dentists: the DDS (Doctor of Dental Surgery) and the DMD (Dental Medicine Doctorate). Both require a minimum of eight years of college and professional training after high school. Graduation from high school with a strong preparatory background in science, math, and English. Graduation from a four-year college with a strong science background. Pre-dental students often have Bachelor’s degrees in chemistry or biology. Any degree is probably acceptable as long as it includes science courses required by the dental school to which the student is applying. High grades are very important. A high score on the Dental Admissions Test. Completion of a four-year dental program awarding the DDS or DMD degree. Specialty training of two to eight years may follow dental school.
Now check out the job requirements of being the World's Smallest Woman at a traveling carnival.
JOB REQUIREMENTS: Don't grow. Ever.
Gloria's got it made. Her smile says it all:
I don't think I've ever felt worse about anything in my entire life. I've shed many tears for Gloria. I've also written a poem about her.
Though I suppose it's more of a limerick.
Finally! I found Inflatable Spidey! Of course, it's not a "prize," but rather a for-sale-only deal costing twenty bucks. Kind of cheapened the punch of my mission, but God damn was that thing big. I couldn't help myself. In the spirit of success learned from Gloria the Small, I forked over the cash and wandered out, tripping all over myself and unknowingly knocking children onto the concrete with my new giant Spider-Man.
Spider-Man is truly the Alpha Male. Even as an inflatable, dude's got a bigger cock bulge than Curt Hennig.
So long from Reithoffer's crazy amusement park / carnival / parking lot, always a wonderful time. Don't misjudge the words used here -- I really love it when the company temporarily sets up shop, and probably won't miss a year until I make better friends who invite me to coffee houses to read stuff and debate other stuff on Saturday nights. This is the only place around where you can buy a 7' inflatable Spider-Man and meet the World's Smallest Woman in one evening, and for this I am eternally grateful.
I wonder if that guy's still stuck in the Hall of Mirrors.
