Taking down the Carney

This weekend, I went to the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo for the first time in four years. I tell you what, all you rodeo-haters: you are missing out on a quality time. Of course, as is par for the course in Houston, we do things bigger and better than everywhere else--our rodeo is also a massive musical extravaganza, carnival and shopping experience as well.

But, like every other fair in the world, we have jerkoff carnival workers, or carneys. Carneys, by their basic nature, are snarky, jaded SOBs who simply hate people--especially little kids, pushover parents or totally whipped dudes trying to impress their girlfriend/wife/mistress. So what do they deal with all day? Any or all of the above.

Carneys also take great pleasure in setting up games that you can't win--particularly the basketball game. You know, the one where you take a regular ball and have to shoot it from about 3-point land through a less than regulation hoop that's all bent up. But, of course, your eyes and past experience tell you that, yes, you can sink that damned ball in that damned hole. So you try. And fail. Repeatedly, as Carney laughs at you and takes your money.

15 years ago, I actually beat Carney at the Lehigh Valley (Pa.) Fair. I sank a shot on the first try--nothing but net. Carney tried to say that I missed entirely, but my friends nearly killed him so he gave me the prize. I promptly gave it to a friend of mine (Sally, if you don't have that damned bear to this day, shame on you).

15 years. 15 long years. Many shots, no paydirt. Victory for the Carney.

Until today.

I will have you know, dear reader, that I left a trail of carnage through the HLSR grounds today. I beat everything--the dart game, the watergun game, the other watergun game, you name it. Momma Pug came home with two stuffed pugs and would have come home with a third if we hadn't given it to the infant daughter of a Houston cop. And then there was the nemesis--the basketball game.

I tried. And failed. Tried, failed. Tried, failed. But, every time, the shot was pure and just barely missed.

So it was Josh Carter time. Time and money were running out and the three needed to be drained. So, with my last shot, a la the Aggie sniper, I took one long stride, evened up, and fired. The shot was online--so online, in fact, I heard CBS's Gus Johnson say, "Pure."

It was. It was down--and then the BS rim came into play. And it popped back up in the air. Carney smiled. My wife shrieked. Her new friend also shrieked.

Then the ball game back down, rattled around, and went through.

It was the game winner over Nebraska, except it wasn't in a gym, it didn't mean anything, I didn't get mobbed and nobody noticed.

Except Carney, that is. It looked like I'd kicked him in the nuts. He had lost, and I had won.

"So whaddya want?" he snapped.

"Get me a Winnie the Pooh," I said.

Of course, all the WTPs were in the very back, buried behind Kung Fu Pandas and other crap. So he looked at me with a look of both disdain and pleading.

"Chop chop," I said. "I don't have all day."

He gave me the WTP and I walked away and never looked back. If I had, I'm sure I would have seen Carney either 1) crying or 2) flipping me the bird. Maybe both. You never know.