Okay, I’m not going to lie, when my older sister had a pick-up truck, we did put duct tape over the cracks and fill it up with water to make a hillbilly hot tub. And yes, I have had friends seriously suggest cow-tipping as a possible activity.
But if doing dumb shit when you’re a teenager makes you a hick, then everyone on the planet is a hick.
Yeah, sorry about that.
You’re welcome.
Judge away. I’ll just sit here and eat my five-way and enjoy life while you’re busy being a judgy, bitter asshole who’s going to die alone.
In any other state, King’s Island would be the star attraction. Instead we get this condescending, “Oh, isn’t that just a poor man’s Cedar Point?” horse crap.
I don’t need your pity, I’m putting all of my eggs in the FC Cincinnati basket.
Uggghh, this is what we get for taking credit for CVG, even though it’s in Kentucky. We have to take credit for this idiotic, wasteful monstrosity as well.
Okay, what sucks about this is that my childhood home actually bordered a cornfield. So I don’t have much to say. I mean, corn fields are spooky and awesome and really fun to play in, so I don’t really see the problem. It could’ve been worse. We could’ve grown up in a state known for cranberry bogs, tobacco fields, or potato farms.
I was once blamed for Cincinnati’s airport by a New Yorker. Who regularly flies out of the nightmare dumpster fires that are JFK and LaGuardia. To my everlasting shame, I blamed it on Kentucky, when I should’ve had the guts to stand up for CVG actually being pretty beautiful, for an airport.
“Fuck the Cavs.”
“Oh, I just assumed since you grew up in Ohio…”
“I grew up in Cincinnati. Where we were trained to hate Cleveland.”
“Is there really a difference?”
“Get out.”
Wearing a Reds hat outside of Cincinnati does not indicate Reds fandom. It indicates gang membership. You’re going to want to remember this.
Assuming they visited prior to 2010. 