All the thanks to today’s Penis Tuesday goes to my mother. Yes, my mother. Many cheers to the woman who made this perverted mind all possible — and prompted by a Facebook comment, nonetheless. Our regular family summer road trips were to Conneaut Lake Park (in Pennsylvania, our favorite amusement spot as kids). We were season pass holders, went camping, and even as really young kids, we went to Story Book Forest to visit Humpty Dumpty and friends. So many memories of such a small little town.
One trip in particular, we planned a trip to the local food festival in coordination with our park adventure…
The Weenie Roast.
With a supposed ever-awesome tagline: It’s not how long, but what’s in it.
I might have made that up, but it just… err, fit. But seriously, size matters, blah blah blah…
It was a festival of corporate-driven lameness, much like the “rib burnoffs” made by popular during Memorial Day weekends, and from what I remember, horrible music and terrible food (read: lamest of all food festivals). And I distinctly remember pot smoke. But I digress.
After our exit, walking around in the middle of nowhere in the dark, we — as kids all under the age of 10, mind you — yelled at passing cars and patrons, “Don’t go to the Weenie Roast.” And I’m pretty sure I remember yelling at a local news crew or maybe they were filming us stuffing our faces with massively disgusting hot dogs. I need that video. Take that, corporate America.
And my parents claim they’re not hippies.
But for what it’s worth, it is an awesome July 4th memory and still cracks all of us up to this day.
So, when you’re hungry and looking for a little bit of holiday fun, dear PT Readers, don’t go to the weenie roast.
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