It should probably be stated here and now that the events which took place at the fairgrounds that July evening  have been enhanced by about 47 years of experience and perspective which I could not have offered at the time the incident actually took place.

Translation:  the following story has been embellished with great audacity and irreverence.

You’re welcome.

It all started in a petting zoo.

Mom and Dad had packed up their two young boys one evening while the rodeo, the carnival, and all things yee-haw were in town to further catalyze the stereotype that Wyoming was nothing but a Petri dish for cowboy related activity. 

Granted we were. 

Even still, the associated appropriation of that attitude by all the town folk attending the event was cringeworthy, even through the eyes of a young boy who would take to the internet to gritch about it some 47 years later.

After checking out the livestock for reasons unknown, we made our way to the petting zoo. 

My brother and I enjoyed that one, also for reasons unknown.

There was always an unruly goat in there threatening incidents which would lead to a cantankerous carny pointing to the sign which brandished words like “not responsible” and “at your own risk”.  There were other animals in there too, but memory escapes me as to what they were.

Save for the lamas.

Or is that llamas?

Irregardlessly, I remember two lamas there that night.

I would refer to them as Fernando and Dali, but for two specific reasons, I won’t.

1. I’ve already written this post and am adding this bit in after the fact. Assigning names would require that I make reference to their names throughout the rest of this audacious and irreverent retelling of the events at the petting zoo that night. I just don’t feel like going in and butchering what is already a good thing.
2. Those are pretty obvious names to use when referring to lamas. It doesn’t rise to the level of audacity and irreverence I’m aspiring to.

“Mom, why is that one lama on top of the other lama like that?” 

Mom had a 32 oz cup of lemonade in her hand.  She took a drink of it and folded her arms back up across her chest with the open cup still held in her hand.  “Those lamas are making love.”

At that time, I had no idea what she was talking about.  Before I could continue my interrogation of Mom on exactly what in tarnation she was talking about, all the while questioning the contents of her “lemonade”, our discussion was rudely interrupted by the strangest noise I had ever heard.

Sure I didn’t know what it was back then, but after applying 47 years of perspective and experience to the situation, I can say with total audacity and irreverence that the noise in question was one of ecstasy emitted by the rather satisfied lama who had been conducting his affairs out in the open at the children’s petting zoo in the middle of the fairgrounds that July evening in Casper, Wyoming.

Rest assured, he wasn’t done with his showboating that night.

After the resonance of his ecstasy had dissipated, the lama disengaged from his aforementioned activities, and proceeded to strut his stuff around the contained area while his partner remained in position, sporting a look on her face which translated to “Is that all?”.

Unbeknownst to those of us Tharps who were now distracted by other activities, the love’em and leave’em lama had his eyes on another target.

Much as alliteration almost always annoys, lamas love lemonade.

A startled scream emanated from Mom, who may or may not have been in possession of spiked lemonade.

It would seem that the strutting lama had snuck up on Mom, and plunged his snout into Moms cup seeking out post-coital refreshment.

Audacious and irreverent, I know.

Fortunately, the only parts of this story which aren’t true are the ones I made up.