By Nate Sanchez

Senior Columnist

The Kern County Fair wrapped up Sunday night, and not a day too soon. If you don’t understand the relationship of headlines to their stories, I’ll make this easy for you: I think the county fair is awful.

Still here? Great. Buckle up, because this will get painful.

While we’re on the subject of pain, let’s talk about the entertainment. I went on a day when an a cappella group in different colored bowling shirts was on the stage closest to the entrance. To be honest, it was almost like The Wiggles ditched the creepy pirate and started a bowling team. That South American pan flute guy near the exit was cool though. Pan flutes are chill.

“A fool and his money are soon parted,” says the old phrase. The fair will suck money out of your wallet like a vacuum cleaner. Except this vacuum cleaner smells like smoke and armpit with a hint of animal poop.

Not only do you have to pay to get in, you should also plan on not getting hungry or thirsty while you’re in there. There are tons of places to eat, but most of them won’t make the prices visible until after you’ve stood in line for half an hour. Also, everything is 10 dollars.

Another reason I don’t like the fair is the crowd. Don’t get me wrong; I have no problem being in a large group, but I need at least four to six inches between me and strangers in a crowd like this. If you’re gonna go to the fair, prepare to be bulldozed in the shin by some inconsiderate dunce with a stroller. YOU DON’T GET TO USE YOUR BABY AS A WEAPON, LADY.

Cigarette smoke is gross, so it figures that it’s EVERYWHERE at the fair. I don’t have scientific proof yet, but I’m estimating that every hour you spend at the fair shortens your lifespan by six months.

If you want to smoke, go right ahead. But hey, secondhand smoke causes cancer too, and I’d like to live to see my 70s. Just because I’m sharing my personal space with you doesn’t mean you have to share your impending cancer with me.

If you’re planning on eating fair food, it would also be wise to plan to preemptively call in sick the next day at work. The food will mess you up in a gastrointestinal flurry of caloric rage. Calories, man.

You actively take your life into your own hands when you put something you got from the fair into your body. One of our party ate a French fry that tasted like blood. We christened it “The Bloodfry.” We figured it was in contact with metal for a long time, or someone bled on it. Either way, gross.

Even the picnic tables are trying to kill you. Pointy things made of metal and other peoples’ leftovers litter your eating space so much, it should come with a sign reading, “CAUTION: HEPATITIS HERE. A through Z. All of them.”

When we went into amusement area to find deep-fried Oreos, we encountered a creature most vile: the carnie. I always wondered whether the word comes from “CARnival” or “inCARcerated.” It’s well-known that most people are ex-convicts, so I played “What was HE in for?” in my head.

In short, the fair is terrible. The catharsis of writing about it makes up for it, though. It pleases me. I’ll find a way to get in for free, so you’ll probably see me there next year. I have friends and I’m not a weirdo who’ll throw away socializing for principle.