Hear ye, hear ye, Lords and ladies.

It is I a Parnan-Cherla, Queen of slightly salacious stories, welcoming each and all to the amusement known to several. l

to the amusement known to several as too hot for radio.

Of course, if t'were the Renaissance,

too hot would simply refer to life in a corset, and radio would just be some

guy shouting from a top a hillock of sheep shit.

So has everyone been to a renfair?

Sorry, has anyone been to a renfair?

Yes, the Renaissance fair, when grown adults

willfully pretend to live in a time of smallpox and no indoor plumbing.

Well, if you haven't been, just imagine wandering around a hot dirty campground, drinking a tankard of 3.2 grog, buying a massive turkey leg, taking a bite for your insta, shouting

ha-saa to no one in particular particular and passing out in the dirt.

Oh sure, there's Chain Mail, body comedy, and weird guys with lutes.

Not so different from what you get in the public parks of Berkeley for free.

And there's dirt. Did I mention the dirt?

It's kind of everywhere. On your clothes, in your hair

all over the ground

don't get me wrong a lot of people love rent fares

plenty of states have them and not just the ones with legal weed.

And yes, there's a certain allure to playing dress up and watching dudes joust.

Probably something to do with the nesthetizing and inherently dangerous and difficult time in order to focus on important stuff, like British accents and leather doublets.

And the Renfaire is just where we find ourselves in today's story by the writer Deirdre Coil.

...