By Mack Callahan
Topeka’s Lady Whistledown with heartburn and a press pass
Dearest readers, if you happened to be among the brave and sunburned souls at the Stormont Vail Events Center carnival last night, you may have witnessed what can only be described as the emotional and gastrointestinal climax of the season.
It was closing night. The funnel cakes were fried, the air thick with sugar and teen hormones, and the Yo-Yo Swings were doing what they do best—spinning slightly off-center and violating three different laws of physics. That is, until a white-shirted Romeo turned that innocent ride into the set of a horror film directed by Pepto Bismol.
As the swings came to a slow, romantic halt, this young hero leaned forward, issued a gurgling warning from the depths of his soul, and unloaded the entire contents of his dignity onto the platform… while it was still spinning. Like a Jackson Pollock painting with worse timing.
Behind him, a young couple screamed in slow motion. The man—clearly the MVP of the evening—grabbed his partner and pulled her back just in time, saving her from a faceful of chunky shrapnel. Six seats ahead, a woman with a hair bun and a large iced lemonade began dry heaving and shouting “HELL NO!” loud enough to startle a security guard and two pigeons.
Meanwhile, the protagonist of our tragedy—drenched in shame and other substances—sat slumped, catching his breath between full-body puke spasms, while his date in a red strapless top looked back at him with the cold resolve of a woman reconsidering every life choice she made that led to this moment.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, lifting his hand halfway in a last-ditch plea for mercy.
“No. I’m sorry,” she replied, before disappearing into the crowd with the kind of bounce that says, “This isn’t my first Topeka heartbreak, but it’ll be my last with a man in Vans and a weak stomach.”
The poor soul could be seen an hour later, still wandering the midway, eyes scanning the crowd like a man who just lost his ride, his pride, and possibly a decent chance at romance.
The swing ride was promptly shut down for 30 minutes while a teenager with a hose and zero enthusiasm attempted to wash away the sins of the evening. The southeast corner of the carnival became a no-man’s-land—cursed ground where only the bravest would tread, and even then, not without a visible flinch.
As the sun dipped below the cotton candy haze of the midway, the dry heaving continued like a sad violin solo underscoring a beautiful Topeka sunset.
And so ends the tale of love, loss, and digestive betrayal. We wish our young hero a swift recovery, a new shirt, and possibly a therapist.
Until next time,
Mack
