The Festival of Freaks
The blistering sun scorched my face, but the spontaneous piercing wind still left goosebumps on the backs of my arms. There was no denying that the rest of the crowd were unphased as they shrowded the beach and board walk with their summer fashions.
It was quite a spectacle, a true bag of liquorice all sorts.
Everything was awkward; from the worn in herringbone wood patterned board walk (which was better served as a trip hazard), to the one story elevated toilet blocks (with a 100m long snaking accessible ramp), the 80’s amusement park (fresh from Tom Hanks’s BIG), and not forgetting the tattooed shirtless man with his Rottweiler and denim shorts with two bananas in his back pocket. In my mind this place had delivered.
Eventually our stomachs got the better of us. The salty beach air was occasionally infused with the blubbery aroma of fat. Not before long we found ourselves standing in an amusing stampede amongst hundreds of hangry human beings with no other choices but to pick from 50 shades of brown.
I ordered a hot dog and embellished it with some heinz. My heart skipped a beat as I unwillingly consumed 240 calories of placeholder food under a shared picnic table with a bright yellow circular fibre glass shade. The collection of tables was nothing fantastic; it was the zoo of people that had my full attention. They ate like a recent famine had plagued the city and were preparing for Armageddon. Suddenly a woman swaggered over and yelled out to her friends across the table from us.
“There’s so many niggas here I ALMOST coudn’t FIND you niggas.” She said.
Word. I thought.
 Hangry = hungry + angry