"C'mon! You know you wanna try it!"

That's the first thing I heard when I walked into the Wisconsin Exposition Center at State Fair last week; coming from a disembodied voice from an endless row of vendor display booths.

I wasn't quite sure what "it" was but yes, strangely enough, I did wanna try it.

That adventurous spirit possesses me every August. How could it not? After you walk through the front gate and see all the food booths with banners flapping overhead, advertising their wares.

"Steak."

"Sausage."

"Funnel Cake."

"Lemonade."

Flying the colors of all those calories. A mini United Nations. Eat, eat and eat some more. And our flag was still there.

Moments after a guy walked by me wearing a "Will sell wife for Chocolate" shirt, I saw "Cary Cranberry."

Cary may have the toughest gig at the fair. He's dressed up like a huge berry. His oversized costume head favors the Martian character in the old Bugs Bunny cartoons. He flops around in enormous red clown shoes. Wisconsin grows more cranberries than any state in America and Cary is just trying to spread the good word.

Fairgoers aren't quite sure what he is, still they somehow feel compelled to have their pictures taken with him.

Cary is just one of the thousands of people who work at the Fair but the Fair can turn into work for any non-worker, if you don't play your cards right.

Inside the Expo center, some unfortunate man was toting four mops that his wife had just bought, clopping them on the ground for balance as he walked like a shepherd on a steep hillside.

Two hours later? Same guy, same mops.

Word to the wise: buy the mops on your way out.

Then there are the souvenir prizes, like the ubiquitous stuffed cows, each of which is the size and circumference of three NBA regulation-sized basketballs. I saw one father carrying a cow for his little girl in his right hand while holding a plate of fried something-or-other with his left, gazing longingly at the food which he had no shot at eating until he could find a place to park the cow. And there were countless stuffed bananas which were taller than most of the first and second-graders I saw lugging them around.

Seated right next to someone wearing a "You don't know me. Federal witness protection program" shirt, was an elderly woman going about the challenging business of taking the first bite of a cream puff. But she was a pro, polishing off the fair's most famous delicacy with nary a trace of powder on her clothing. This lady knew her way around a puff.

"My mother-in-law passed a while back, but do you know what we found in her kitchen?" she asked me. "In her recipe box was a recipe for state fair cream puffs which she clipped right out of the paper in 1952!"

Such sensitive information in a major daily publication? Good thing it didn't fall into the wrong hands. It may have changed the course of the Cold War.

I went into the livestock show barn where all the young handlers were wearing white pants as they paraded their animals around the arena. This wasn't a fashion statement, it was a rule.

Really. It's in Section 5 of the "Junior Livestock Showmanship and Round Robin Showmanship Rules and Guidelines," which clearly states that "independent Juniors must wear white pants." No casual days in this barn.

This was a major event. The reigning "Guernsey Princess" with her sash draped across her blue coveralls, sat in the row in front of me getting her hair done by a friend. A man behind me talked on his cell phone. He wasn't happy about the judge in a recent event.

"Usually an official talks to an associate, but that's about all you can do," he said. Even in this sport, people complain about the refs.

I saw a teenager wearing a shirt that said "Escobar" and took the young lad for a Brewers fan. But upon closer inspection, "Escobar," was fine Mexican chocolate which I was told was being displayed in the Expo Center. So I dodged several Hummer-sized strollers on my way back to the center but never found the chocolate.

Maybe that was because I lost my focus after stumbling upon a table which touted "Naga Ghost Pepper Sauce, the hottest in the world." That's something I knew I didn't wanna try. The sauce was located not far from a booth which advertised "Wooden Rubber band-Shooting Guns."

"That's a nun's worst nightmare," said my wife, she and I both Catholic elementary school alums.

Back outside, a 4-year-old dropped a large portion of a blue snow cone on his grandmother's lap. The kid was tired. Granny was tired.

And after eating a butterfly pork chop sandwich, apple cider donut, cream puff, Chicago hot dog, strawberry sundae, Reuben rolls and cookie dough dipped in white chocolate (all of the aforementioned split 50/50 with the missus) I was tired. It was time to leave.

Anybody seen the mop guy?