After Sarah and I watched the teenage pregnancy couple walking away, our eyes did not go bored again much longer, because this immaculate specimen came into our lives very shortly afterward. All weekend long, I had been singing the Cougarlife.com jingle that I had been hearing on Sirius since I’ve gotten it, and therefore, all women with semblance of children, or looked like they had children were being labeled cougars, all weekend long. This one, we ended up calling the Queen of Cougars (who ranks just below the Fairy Godcougar whom was unphotographable), despite the fact that we saw that she was technically married still, which meant that she was not the definitive, divorced mother cougar, but it certainly didn’t mean she didn’t go on the prowl looking for sex with younger men. Didn’t matter though, because she was a total cougar, whether or not she realized it.
From all angles, we were in awe of the Queen of Cougars. Whether or not Sarah was just indulging me with infatuation or not was irrelevant, because we were both staring at the Queen as long as she was in the vicinity. Here, her husband, that fat Haji in the baby blue polo shit, points at the Test Your Might hammering game, and is apparently boasting to his Queen that he can ring the bell within five mighty swings of the hammer. He fails, and I laugh. I’ve hit the bell before. Twice.
But seriously, look at this slob. Sarah and I came to the conclusion that he’s obviously got money, whether he’s some Arabian prince or something, and that’s how he’s able to snare what’s obviously a woman who’s mom clothes are jean shorts so short, that the pockets drape lower than the rest of the garment, cowboy boots, fake orange tan, and the pink fuck-me bra. Her painted nails happened to match her bra, too. There’s no way that she’s not cougaring it up when he’s not around, and has to be banging the mailman, milkman, the dog walker, and pizza delivery boy, because a schlub like middle-aged Aladdin here has no shot at hell at alleviating her of all the sexual electricity that she’s emitting.
We salute you, (future) Queen of Cougars, for whoring up the Renfest with your pheromone-induced prowling instincts, and for stealing the show at an event where tits are exploding out of corsets left and right otherwise. We hated saying goodbye, but got damn, did I/we love to watch you go.
