Hot Wrasslin Munkay

Every summer down in the southern part of the state, the local brewery puts on an event called Heritagefest.  It is held in a beautiful quaint little town settled and inhabited by mostly Germans. The houses are gorgeous brick and gingerbread turn of the century design, complete with torrents and gabled roofs. There are sausage meat markets on just about every block.  Part of the fun is seeing the extreme difference a few miles can make. I am not German, I am Scandinavian and reside in a dala horse, toll painted type community where the local butcher advertises bulk herring in his window. My husband is German though, and I love him anyway.
 
The boys and I stumbled on this event quite by accident a few years back. Now we go every summer. Most of the attendee's are well past middle age.  There are tents set up offering German delicacies, crafts, and of course, beer. Lots and lots of beer. The only thing that rivals the amount of beer tents are the number of polka bands that are playing there. 
 
Strangely enough, in this festive party atmosphere, I never see anyone smile. Laughter is quite unheard of. I made a bet with my hubby last time we went  together that he would not be smiled at once. He paid up by buying me a funnel cake. Maybe it is because we go during the day, but every one walks around with dour expressions on their faces. Course make me wear one of those wool costumes the frou's dress in during the heat of the summer, or leather shorts and I would tend to be cranky also. But how can you listen to that bouncy ethnic music and not grin? The music is wonderful, but the people sit in the tents and watch like glass turtles on a rock, afraid to move encase they break a smile.
 
Not my little group of tow headed monkeys. We stick out. Bright smiley faces in the gloom. We dance inside the tents and out. Would be nice if we actually knew how to polka but we wing it. And laugh out loud as we try,  resembling Elaine on Stienfield's horrible dance moves, but well past caring. We drink. It does not take long to get a tasty beverage as noone else dares to indulge. I buy a strange imported beer, we all take a sip, my boys included, and then we set it down, and dance away. The kids and I have never finished a beer, that first cold taste is all we want.
 
The Germans watch our shenanigans stoakly from the sidelines. Some will shake their grim heads disapprovingly. A few of the descendants of mixed marriages (German intermarriage with those nationality not humor challenged), will smirk.
 
Last year the promoters tried to liven things up to attract a younger attendance. They brought in a climbing wall. Serious miss call after a few beers.  They introduced tuba-mania. Basically a parade of tube players of all ages and skill levels. Yet another thing not enjoyable after beer. They did though make an impressive mountainous tuba sculpture out of old discarded tubas. My youngest son thought it was another climbing wall, and to my chagrin scaled it to try blowing it's only intact mouthpiece at the very top. Poor guy was quite disappointed after all that hard work he wasn't able to get a sound to come out of that monster.
 
This year we were unable to make the three hour drive to the event. My hubby calles me excitedly from the coast where he is working during the week. "Munkay Bitch, you know what they had at Heritagefest this year?", he yells,"SOUR KRAUT WRESSLING"I just watched it on TV, it was nationally televised!!!!!" That is about as excited as I hear my German hubby ever get. The boys and I embarrass him so much that he no longer goes with us. I'm picturing large red faced serious lederhosen clad men, drinking steins in hand, watching big sullen frous throwing down the smack. Leave it to to them to take a generally erotic sport and turn it into pure nasty. Imagine the smell and the mess. I love it.  I soo want to try it. My fighting weight rings up at about a buck and a quarter. Approximately eight pounds of that is hair and munkay tail. Put me into the ring and I'd wear my opponent out by flinging kraut at them like a chimp tossing her own stink . I just couldn't handle the drive home with fermenting cabbage reeking in all my hair.
 
I'm working at getting cheese wressling happen at the bistro. Maybe throw down a challenge for Wisconsin to venture over the state line to show  us what they are made of.  Bring your own crackers. But chocolate would be my ideal food item of choice. Of course I'd have to be first in the ring. "Oops, I'm falling!  Before my compitition enters. Blup....blup..." "1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9" the count starts. "Noo- I'm up, I'm up, ....ooops!" Face down I land. Again and again