Gimme Dat Nut

Fair to remember or journey to peanut hell?
by Dan Gillis III

I know of nothing more pure and true than my unadulterated love of anthropomorphized foodstuffs. Whether it’s empanadas with tap shoes, jumbo shrimp with sunglasses, or even a torta playing the trombone, I just can’t get enough of these cute little fuckers. So, when I was awarded the opportunity to meet one of these adorable shit heads, I jumped on it like a husky kid on a beanbag chair. This was my chance to finally make consummate this love of my loins and partake in an epic journey that would make Das Rhiengold look like Candyland.

I was going to the L.A. County Fair to find Mr. Peanut.

That’s right, the peanut king himself; that top-hat wearing, black cane-wielding, charming and monocled chap who holds the answers to all the burning questions roasting in our salty little brains.

Or that’s what Mr. Peanut’s publicist led me to believe, anyway.

It’s true, the peanut has a publicist, and why not? It is the centennial for the Planters brand and this year they dusted off the ol’ Nut Mobile for a cross country tour, smoothly spreading across the Wonderbread of the heartland to its crust here at the L.A. County Fair.

As an accomplice (in nut crimes) and I soon found out, even a voyage this sweet has some crunchy chunks along the way.

First, of course, we had to trek through the five levels of carnie hell, trudging through Dante’s Inferno incarnate in this panopticon of pain we call the County Fair.

We encountered our first challenge shortly after exiting my Mazda when we could almost hear the words of the great poet echoing in our earballs. “Through me you enter eternal pain, through me you enter the population of loss.” And a population of the lost it was. Poor souls wandered amid the Ford F-150’s, mothers clutched their children, fathers cursed this infernal parking lot, all under the heat of the Inland Empire sun. We could see those hellish gates in the distance, rising up from the earth like stale Pringles.

We were passed by shuttles of people expediting their descent to the underworld like Charon’s skiff sailing the river Styx (no, thank you very much, Mr. Roboto). Arriving at the gates, we said adios to the world as we know it, and passed through those vicious three-pronged Cerebus turnstiles into this city of woe.

“Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”

On the other side, we were greeted with the sounds of distant screams and the smell of a TGI Friday’s on fire. We were now in the second level: Land of the Gluttons. “They suffer here who sinned in carnal things, their reason mastered by desire,” my homegirl told me. And this was undoubtedly true as we caught sight of the equatorial belts bisecting the bellies of those who passed us for the cotton candy, copious underarm flab hanging from Target tank-tops, and pregnant teens nearly bursting at the seams.

Next, we waded through the gauntlet of squanderers and horders, as the carnie-harpies enticed us to try a game. At one booth, kids jumped for the late ’90s stuffed animals (winnings from the ring toss), while a carnie counted his money, one leg raised nearly exposing his testicles from his too-short khaki cargo shorts.

I believe Dante called this the “moose knuckle.”

This didn’t phase us, though, as we focused on Mr. Peanut-pants. We weren’t deterred even as we broke through the next two trials: The Petting Zoo of Putrescence and The Great Hall of Terrible, Terrible Children’s Art. Meanwhile, I rehearsed my questions for the immense nut: Have you ever done a tour with the Weiner Mobile? As a homosexual, how do you feel about gay marriage? Aren’t you a legume?

I could see him in the distance, his top hat towering over the throng of onlookers. Sensing that my goal was in reach, I got out my tape recorder and approached Mr. P, determined for answers. Suddenly I was caught in a whirlwind of Planters employees, and the next thing I knew I was in front of a green screen superimposing myself on Times Square. It was during my fabulous poses that I stole a glimpse of Peanutface pinning my homegirl up against the Peanut Mobile.

Mr. Peanut just wanted some poon!

With his once noble visage gone, we left Mr. Peanut to his perversions and headed back into the hellfire. As for the adventures on our hasty exit from Hades?

Well friends, that’s another story for another time.

Check out more Dan G. at Underbelly LA.