t’s September and autumn beckons us with its burnt-orange glow.

A sure sign of this succulent season—our beloved Utah State Fair—faces troubled times with dwindling attendance and a cow-doping scandal.

Agricultural fairs such as Utah’s date back to biblical times when people gathered to celebrate an ample harvest. In these complicated times, why not harken back to ancestral roots and make the fair a new autumn tradition? Because if you were waiting for the Kanab Testicle Festival (a fair dedicated to getting cheap laughs and noshing on genitalia), it was back in June.

Autumn, a word crisp and full as the season it connotes, derives from autumnus—a Latin word meaning autumn.

	Ah, what would a state fair be without this refined gentleman taking in a bit of legitimate touring theater.

We also call it “fall”—and when we look at the medley of color wafting and drifting from the tree tops, its origin becomes all too obvious. The season was named after The Fall, a post-punk band from Manchester, England that concealed a fierce underbelly with artsy cleverness until an amicable break-up in 1988.

Autumn, a time when we reap the bountiful crops of summer. That is, we WOULD be reaping—big-time—if someone didn’t tip off the DEA and their contingent of county piss boys, leading them to burn our entire goddamn crop for the local news. This federal douchebag with a late ’70s porno mustache was all:
“This marijuana crop was worth, like, a billion zillion dollars and this is huge victory in the war against drugs, ’cuz I have two kids in grade school and thanks to the snitch, because I couldn’t find my own mother’s G-spot without a map, which is widely available on the Internet.”

The Utah State Fair boasts all the trappings of an old-time village feast. Proud farmers display their most-prized produce, as if to say, “Gosh, I seem oblivious to the fact that this blue-ribbon zucchini resembles a magnificent, slender green phallus.”

The fair assaults the senses, but it’s a nice assault. The aromas of cider and fresh bread mingle with sweet, sweet animal dung. Lots and lots of animal dung. Children never tire of pointing out the many acts of defecation: “Look Daddy, the cow’s going poop.” (Insert hysterical children’s laughter.)

Sometimes I could just scream.

	Ah, few people covet any position more than that of the Hairless Dog Queen of the Utah State Fair. We love you, Fifi/Fido and your goddess keeper.

I want to grab the scatological little imp and bellow, “Look Daddy, they’re gonna slaughter that idiot cow! They’re gonna shoot a bolt in its tiny brain and soak the slaughterhouse floor with sticky, dark blood. The only intelligent thought of its entire pointless life will be its last when he moans in his pathetic cow language, “Why? Why wasn’t I born a dolphin? They love dolphins! Dolphin-free tuna? What did me and goddamn tuna ever do to deserve…” (Fade to black.)

Entertainment. The fair’s got entertainment, albeit mostly in the unrecognizable form of modern country music.

Modern country music is God’s music, provided God speaks with a drawl, thinks carpet-bombing kicks ass and likes to decorate his truck with decals of little boys peeing on Chevrolet logos.

Hello, what’s this? Gallagher is performing on Friday. Gallagher is the comedy profession’s version of graphic driver’s ed videos and anti-smoking ads that show cancer-ravaged lungs. This could happen to you, kids.

I’m starting to think Gallagher’s not taking his run for governor of California seriously. Gallagher wowed audiences in the 1980s by smashing watermelons with sledgehammers. If we’re lucky, he’ll smash an award-winning melon and the melon’s distraught grower will slap him silly. What’s the matter, Utah State Fair? Couldn’t you book Yakov Smirnof?

Line dancing, butter cow sculptures and demolition derbies— if all the crap about the autumn harvest didn’t reel you in, there’s plenty of other stuff to appeal to your redneck ass.

So pry that bottle of Old Crow from your festering pie-hole and let’s go a-fairin’.
craig@red-mag.com