Can you say "Ribs?"

Rib Fest, Rib Fest, we goin' to da Rib Fest. For those of you unfamiliar with this phenomenon, lots and lots of bar-b-que connoisseurs gather in our fair city to smoke each other out and stuff the patrons with as much protein as humanly possible. Pulled pork, pulled beef, beef brisket, hot dogs, chicken, bratwurst, and RIBS, baby. Not to mention a few sides of onion blossoms, spuds, fries, sweet corn, ice cream, milk shakes, and deep fried Oreos. Mmmmm- mmmm. We're going to have to push our stomachs home in a wheel barrow. Tonight, we will sleep like the dead.

My best friend actually suggested this event...and that's why she's my best friend. I mean, we'll have to wash all this meat down with gallons of beer, that's the only way to truly enjoy good bar-b-que, right? No one can drink like us. We are an alcoholic tag-team apocalypse. My poor husband, he's the designated driver and God bless him for it. It's a good thing we entertain him or we'd be up Budweiser creek without a paddle.

You'd think I wouldn't want to see that much food after spending last weekend in Chicago. But this ain't no fu-fu affair of shrimp cocktail and chilled crab. This is the domain of butt-crack sporting, beer-bellied, stubbly-faced bearing construction workers and league bowlers. Real food. Fat food. If-you-drop-it-on-your-shirt-it-will-be-licked-off-by-a-stranger food.

The only thing I don't like is the tickets. You have to buy tickets, then exchange the tickets for food and beer. Why? This is just one unnecessary step delaying the inevitable. Just take my cash and give me the goods, no middle man needed. I'm not riding a roller coaster or playing skee ball here, I came to eat. Money - food, money - beer, see how easy that is?

But no bother, the chow-down is on no matter how many ticket booths I have to tip over to get there.