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Thank you man in the Poopy's shirt. This Bud's for you..jpg)
Frontal shot of the best dressed lady at River Roots..jpg)
Action shot of the best dressed lady at River Roots. That cane is priceless.The real reason to attend the River Roots Festival is mostly for the ribs. Yes, there was some Blue Öyster Cult, but the pungent aroma of pork is what brought me and my lovely little S to this celebration of all things redneck. S is a real treat. She very actively represented the Jewish population today at the rib fest. As the Goy to her Jew, I continually wonder if she is going to get kicked out of the club for such unorthodox eating habits.
Goy (Hebrew: גוי, regular plural goyim גוים or גויים) is a Hebrew word which means "nation".[1] Historically and up to modern times it is a synonym for Gentile or non-Jew.
On to other topics. So we wait in line longer than it takes to down our respective Bud Light and Coors Light cans. I was already suspicious of the vendors since I was accosted for drinking the Silver Bullet in lieu of their other piss light offerings. Bah. The ribs were good. The scenery was better. To our delight, a fantastically clad couple sat down next to us and provided us with our gold standard which to judge everyone else for the evening. Her outfit consisted of something akin to a woman lost on her way to a Renaissance festival who happened to have been previously kicked out of Middle Earth. A crimson, Friar Tuck-esque cap with hood, red socks, white sneakers, some sort of dangling bell contraption hanging from what looked like Rosary beads and a drinking gourd. Underneath was a pink flowing skirt and grandma’s Hawaiian shirt courtesy of last year’s garage sale, a bun in her hair, and the pièce de résistance, a large walking stick. She was accompanied by a man, maybe a husband, maybe another Wiccan, who resembled a roadie for .38 Special. Good times.
S appeared hesitant at first, but I needed proof of something so marvelous. Eventually she caved into me taking her “picture” so that I may crop the awesomeness from it for your viewing pleasure. Enjoy.
After capturing the flag, we decided to drink a few more beers and play count the camo, which is a game that centers around us counting how many people are wearing camouflage in a given area and time span. Camo count at last call was 35 in about a forty-five minute window. Not bad. There was a run of camo men’s shorts that worried me to the point of where I may have to investigate if Sears was running a sale or something. Seriously, the animals are dead here and covered in BBQ sauce, which is awesome. Can’t you just put on your “My Indian Name is Runs with Beer” t-shirt and go with it.
Deep special thought by Janelle Greenwood: I believe that you are what you eat and in this case, you may call me Pig. Oink.
Goy (Hebrew: גוי, regular plural goyim גוים or גויים) is a Hebrew word which means "nation".[1] Historically and up to modern times it is a synonym for Gentile or non-Jew.
On to other topics. So we wait in line longer than it takes to down our respective Bud Light and Coors Light cans. I was already suspicious of the vendors since I was accosted for drinking the Silver Bullet in lieu of their other piss light offerings. Bah. The ribs were good. The scenery was better. To our delight, a fantastically clad couple sat down next to us and provided us with our gold standard which to judge everyone else for the evening. Her outfit consisted of something akin to a woman lost on her way to a Renaissance festival who happened to have been previously kicked out of Middle Earth. A crimson, Friar Tuck-esque cap with hood, red socks, white sneakers, some sort of dangling bell contraption hanging from what looked like Rosary beads and a drinking gourd. Underneath was a pink flowing skirt and grandma’s Hawaiian shirt courtesy of last year’s garage sale, a bun in her hair, and the pièce de résistance, a large walking stick. She was accompanied by a man, maybe a husband, maybe another Wiccan, who resembled a roadie for .38 Special. Good times.
S appeared hesitant at first, but I needed proof of something so marvelous. Eventually she caved into me taking her “picture” so that I may crop the awesomeness from it for your viewing pleasure. Enjoy.
After capturing the flag, we decided to drink a few more beers and play count the camo, which is a game that centers around us counting how many people are wearing camouflage in a given area and time span. Camo count at last call was 35 in about a forty-five minute window. Not bad. There was a run of camo men’s shorts that worried me to the point of where I may have to investigate if Sears was running a sale or something. Seriously, the animals are dead here and covered in BBQ sauce, which is awesome. Can’t you just put on your “My Indian Name is Runs with Beer” t-shirt and go with it.
Deep special thought by Janelle Greenwood: I believe that you are what you eat and in this case, you may call me Pig. Oink.
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