Yes, it is that time of the year again. Fair time. Cows, pigs, bands, food on a stick, carnies, funnel cakes, beer, beer, cheese, beer, corn and beer.

But above all, for 11 days, the State Fair is home to the widest assortment of people and culture since our ancestors walked through the gates of Ellis Island. In next few paragraphs I will give you insight in to the guys you will see at the fair. I only cite male fair attendees because I believe women should not be humiliated in any medium. And honestly, I don’t have the space to go into the details of the “Why are you wearing high heels, you whore?” girl or the “those rayon stretch pants must be hot but I realize that is all that fits” girl.

Now on to the people you meet at the State Fair.
 
The “Do Us All a Favor and Put Your Shirt On” Guy

Let’s begin with this simple rule. All men must wear shirts in public. Period.
 
That being said, the “Do Us All a Favor and Put Your Shirt On” Guy falls into three basic categories: The “Washboard” Stomach; The “Washtub” Stomach; and the “Washed-Out” Stomach.
 
The “Washboard” Stomach
 
I don’t care if you have a washboard stomach that would rival Usher’s. Pull the shirt out of the belt loop of your Levi cut-off shorts and put it on now. Sure, you’re proud of the body that the lord almighty gave you, but we don’t care. Frankly, you’re offending those of us who don’t have a perfect physique and never will, no matter how many sit ups we do or how much Whey Protein and Stacker II we ram down our pie hole. Going shirtless attracts the ladies, you say. True. But once her eyes travel north from that six-pack and make contact with that vacuous stare of yours, the odds of you closing that deal drop dramatically. Unless of course her look is equally blank, in which case you’ll be married in six months, divorced in nine and spend the balance of the next decade trying to avoid each other at Love Monkeys shows.
  
The “Washtub” Stomach
 
You know who you are. Your stomach is covered with a fine coat of wispy moss-like hair that is matted down with sweat, or more likely, corn butter. The belt buckle is concealed under a roll of flab that holds your pack of Marlboro lights and a zippo. And yes … the butt crack is visible to the crew of the space shuttle Atlantis.
 
Indeed, it is hot outside. But you’re disgusting and the sight of your shirtless torso makes us want to scrape our gums with a number four wood file.
 
The “Washed-Out” Stomach
 
Dude, you're white. Whiter than white. You make a Depeche Mode groupie look like George Hamilton. Your nipples are small and your cargo shorts are too big. You have a quasi-outie. I don’t want to see your underwear, and I can’t for the life of me figure out why you would want a tattoo of Slash on your shoulder blade. You will spend at least seven hours at the fair today fully exposed to the ultra-violet rays of the sun and guess what? When you get up tomorrow, you will still be pasty white.
 
The “I Don’t Know How to Eat a Cream Puff” Guy

It’s on your face. It’s on your shirt. It’s on your pants and the top of your Rockport shoes. Wipe it off and go home.
 
The “I’m Gonna Win the Biggest Stuffed Animal Ever” Guy

We all know you’re in love with Monica, the strip mall-tanned, blue-eyed girl from shipping and receiving. We can tell because you have your hand in her back pocket. And we all know you get along great with her 5-year-old son Tyler because he has the same rat-tail mullet that you do. But guess what? You’re stuck carrying around a 4-ft. red bull on your shoulder for the next six hours and I’m not. Why? Because my idea of impressing a woman involves a nice dinner, conversation and a good boning. You, on the other hand, are going to woo her by tossing a wooden ring around an empty two-liter bottle of Fanta. The cost of your ring toss is upwards of $100. So is my dinner. But I’ll be nuts deep before you’re finished stuffing that bull in the back seat of your ‘86 Firebird.

The “I Am Going to Eat My Lunch Right Next to My Peeing Cow” Guy

I’ve been in the barns. Cows crap in there. They shoot streams of pee with the force of a thousand tsunamis. And there you sit. On your rickety folding chair eating your Oscar Mayer bologna and cheese sandwich that you made before you left Crivitz yesterday morning. Bon Appetit!
  
Tommy

When it comes to the fair there is only one Tommy and it isn’t Tom Enlund, bartender emeritus at Saz’s. The Tommy of whom we speak is of course, the former governor and the greatest ambassador in the history of the Wisconsin State Fair, our boy from Elroy, the honorable Tommy Thompson.
 
Tommy has been out of office since 2001 and yet the State Fair is still his party. Not Scott McCallum’s and certainly not Jim Doyle’s. Nope, this kegger belongs to the Tomster. 

Why? Because Tommy hangs with the people. Tommy sits at picnic tables in the middle of Rupena’s. Tommy orders his own beers. Tommy isn’t offended when Drew Olson and I walk up to him bulletproof and say “Hey, If you see Dashal Young, tell him we’re looking for him”. And Tommy isn’t too proud to say upon seeing us hours later,  “Hey Dashal, these are the white boys that were looking for you before."  

We miss you Tommy. Not for your leadership, but for your sound bites.

I encourage you to look for these, and other interesting people at the fairgrounds now through the 13th. And if you’re out there, look for me. I am the “Get A Life, You’re Not 24 Anymore” Guy.