Yesterday, we spent the afternoon at the 31st annual Milford Oyster Festival. I don't like oysters (or most seafood other than the mainstream fishes, for that matter), but the Oyster Fest is more of a town fair type deal than an all-out day of oysters, with live music, food and beer, and vendors hawking homemade soap, cheap and not-so-cheap jewelry, and other assorted tschotskes. J's mom and aunt are on the organizing committee, so it was obligatory (sort of) that we make an appearance.
We arrived in time to catch a funk band we wanted to see, and then headed over to browse the craft/crap booths. Rode the ferris wheel (first time in AGES), ate some greasy food, and then started to head out the way we'd come in--through a short dirt path up a hill through some woods. As we approached the path in the woods, we noticed a man who'd just fallen on his face, right at the bottom of the hill. J was the first to notice that the man had clearly pissed himself. We chuckled and watched as a good samaritan helped Monsieur Pissypants to his feet and up the hill (attempts to lead him to the less steep path were unsuccessful). After much stumbling, he finally made it up the hill, which lead to a residential neighborhood.
The good samaritan and his family left Monsieur Pissypants to make his way home "roundddaaggghhcorrrnnnerr", and J and I decided to follow behind him as he meandered down the street, wobbling this way and that, to make sure that he did not intend to get into a car. He made it about a block before wandering into the corner of someone's front yard. There he stood, swaying precariously as J and I approached. J asked "you alright, man?" Monsieur Pissypants slurred "yaaaaaamarright" and then proceeded to plummet face-first directly into a large evergreen bush. He rolled onto his back, still crushing a large branch or two, exposing his unzipped, piss soaked jeans. J says he started to twitch, but at that point I was across the street trying to take a picture with my cameraphone (sorry, it sucks):
J tried to get his mom or aunt on the phone, to see if some cops might like to come assess the scene, but before he could reach anyone, the homeowner came out scowling, as if we knew the drunken log of flesh who'd taken up residence in her yew. We assured her we did not. We discussed the next step, and the last I heard out of Monsieur Pissypants was something like "aaagghnnndunncallgghhcops." Too late, buddy.
J's brother M, after hearing the story, suggested that the Milford Mirror run a picture of Monsieur Pissypants--in all his bush-crushing, pants-moistening glory--the following day, with the headline "Oyster Festival a Huge Success".