Home > 2012-13 Season, Royer's Madcap Experiences > Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Onion Ring Trailer

Royer’s Madcap Experiences: The Onion Ring Trailer

By Ric Royer

By Ric Royer

The lands of the carnival were brown prairie– cleared to accommodate the various structures. But nearest the gravel parking lot, as the ground began to slope a little, was the Onion Ring Trailer.

The heat was terrible. I passed many people from town, dressed in slacks and shirts, the women in house dresses. So many, not being able to stand the thousand-long line to the one portable toilet, simply urinated where they stood. The children carried cones filled with strange blue ice substances.

I had eaten 19 cotton-candies– my stomach was vastly confused and there was a feeling of great turbulence. I needed something to soak up the cotton-candies and the onion ring trailer instantly beckoned.

A doctor had told me once:

“Eat some fried onion rings. That will settle your stomach.”A016

I never forgot that sage advice.


This was a part of the lot poorly-lighted, bereft– empty picnic tables, empty barrels. Someone had overturned an abandoned old incinerator, the kind that abuts right up to your building, releases the smell of garbages [sic] into the air directly surrounding your home, office, or business. The positionable “clean-out” doors were swung open in a frank way, there was a skull inside.

I was now beneath the lights of the onion ring trailer. The proprietor was a morbid, putrid creature– I wanted to view his death instantly but he was all that stood between me and those rings.

The sign said “FRESH DAILY”.

“Is that true?” I demanded.

He seemed far away. Finally- “Huh? Wuzzit? Fuckin’ onion rings, man.”

“I’d like five tureens.”

He paused. “How about if I just put them in a barrel?”

“OK. I would like that.”

He filled the barrel with rings and I paid only $1.75 and five carnival tickets. I smothered them in ketchup and then, when the creature turned his back, I surreptitiously placed all the condiment containers at the top of the barrel. I was going to stick it to this creature. I was going to make him responsible. I desired to know that he would be fired, that others would say Look at this god damn lardass. I’m not hiring this god damn lardass. I desired him to sleep in barns, to make his way quietly across pitch-black countryside and to finally be shot down, for trespassing as he attempted to gingerly cross an electrified fence.

I rolled the barrel over to the picnic table. It was then that a figure emerged from the shadows. I cannot say that he was an official. I just know that he made me leave my barrel where it stood and he walked me to a place in deep darkness near the back of the gravel lot and then he punched me until I fainted.

When I woke up, I was in the Foontz-Flonnaise Home of Abundant Senseless, a notable mental institution.

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