So, yesterday was fascinating. It started when I ventured off to King Richard's Faire (http://kingrichardsfaire.net/) with my good friend Marissa and a few other interesting companions. Well, me and Rissa were off on our own before long, and after a long day of ooohs and aaahs, being stripped and outfitted in leather and velvet wench ware, having everyone call us 'milady' and being propositioned ten or eleven times, we happened across a peculiar man with a curled-at-the-ends mustache conspicuously sharpied on his face, over-the-knee leather boots and a long, dangerous-looking whip. He stood on a wooden stage and waited for his audience to gather into a sufficient lot. We tore our eyes away from him, looked at each other, and immediately took a seat. He spoke in a fake french accent. He cracked his whip. He picked a large, burly man from the audience to be his assistant, and dubbed him Fifi. He was absolute dynamite. At the end of the show, we were officially hooked. I placed five bucks in his money hat along with two roses. To which he replied "oh, merci, merci, madam!" Then my realization hit me: I had left my heart with a mustached man with a whip. Not good.
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