I hate fairs, festivals, and carnivals.
This is the main reason -- kids run wild at these things, and bad things happen. On Sunday, a six-year-old died when he fell out of a ferris wheel:
Ruben Castillo was riding alone in his gondola, which was near the top of the 100-foot Giant Wheel when he fell Sunday afternoon, authorities said. He was pronounced dead at a hospital.
Gee, I don't know, maybe instead of watching from below, a parent or other adult-type figure ought to have gone with the kid to make sure he didn't climb out in mid-air. I mean, ferris wheels are dangerous. Maybe not as dangerous as being Saddam Hussein's lawyer, but still.
The other reason: I get motion sickness on carnival rides. I'm okay with big permanent structures like at Disney, but the flimsy little carnival rides make me puke. Literally.
Stop reading here if you get grossed out easily.
Eight or nine years ago -- and yes, I was theoretically an adult then -- my friends convinced me to go on some swirling thing, and I puked up my turkey sandwich, funnel cake, and cotton candy. While we were still on the ride. All over the place. It was like The Exorcist.
The worst part was that the carnival worker running the ride felt very sorry for me. He gave me a little stuffed animal, the kind that are used as prizes if you managed to toss rings around bottles, or break enough balloons with darts, or whatever.
My friends thought it was very funny. Of course I was very embarrassed, and just wanted to go home and change clothes.
Actually, that's not true. My friends still think it was very funny. It occasionally comes up in conversation. Sometimes they ask me if I still have the stuffed animal. (Yes.) Other times, they just tell their children about it, as a cautionary tale.