For as long as I can remember, my five year old son has wanted to throw vegetables at me. It is not a malicious desire, per se, but just an adolescent curiosity of what it would feel like to just up and pelt his dad with a bell pepper. Whether we are grocery shopping or cooking in our kitchen, I watch Murphy size up different veggies, feeling their weight in his palm, and eyeing my stomach for a perfect gut shot. It goes without question that I love my son and would do anything for him. As a proud father, I wholeheartedly want to grant my son his vegetable beaning wish and let him throw some produce at a live human being. But just not at me. And so, this was how I ended up at the “Vegetable Justice” game at the Renaissance Fair. At Ren Fest, my son was given full permission to tag a man in the face with soggy tomatoes.

I paid a blond man in a blousy shirt five bucks for five tomatoes. We stepped around the barricade set up for adult throwers and moved into a child friendly throwing distance. The target was a mouthy little runt of a man who had his face and arms sticking out of a large wooden wall. 

“Hey kid,” the mouthy target said. “The Transformers stink.”

Murphy looked down at his beloved neon orange Transformers shirt. Then he looked up at the man and threw a tomato at his head. Since Murphy is only five and has the arm strength of a wet noodle, the tomato missed the target. Target man persisted with his rude antagonistic banter.

“Hey kid. You know what else stinks? Your. Dad. Your dad stinks!”

Now thems was fighting words!   Murphy reared back and launched a series of tomatoes. But again they missed wildly.

“Hey kid. Ever ask yourself why you have blond hair and both of your parents have dark hair? Hey kid. The tomato man has blond hair. Look at him. Just… like… you.”

I looked over at the blond tomato man in the blousy shirt who was standing next to me. He shrugged.  He wanted no part of the motor mouths antics. On Murphy’s last throw, he tagged the Target man’s arm. The crowd broke out in applause and the man finally shut up.

The mouthy tomato Target man was just the opening act at Ren Fest. We watched a large dragon hatch out of a huge egg, only to discover that the baby dragon had the raspy voice and ill mannered demeanor of “Triumph the Comic Insult Dog”. 

“Oh! I farted! That one smelled like eggs!” The baby dragon hissed as he sat in an egg shell and sniffed at his dragon crotch.

Next, a bear of a man working the turkey leg booth saw me coming from a mile away. “Hey! Backpack!” He yelled at me, as I innocently fiddled with the bike messenger bag slung around my shoulders. “You need some meat. Man up a little.”

So I did. I manned up and bought a legendary Renaissance Festival turkey leg. As I cartoonishly gorged on the giant dumbbell of smoked poultry, I noticed that my family was surrounded by Renaissance thespians; There was a devilish goat-man drinking from a mug; A man in a full suit of armor strutted around like the cock-of-the-walk; Gaggles of chesty women in booby pushing corsets filled the woody lanes with cleavage; a shirtless man (unappetizingly) sold pickles from a barrel; another shirtless man wore a kilt and a leather collar and shopped for medieval weaponry; another shirtless man in high tights put on a “Mud Show” which main attraction seemed to be the man’s impressive bulge. There were also men in shirts, of course, but the t-shirts at Ren Fest read “Dragon: The other white meat” and “Wenches Love Me”. 

The medieval revelry was contagious. When my wife asked me for directions to the bathroom, I answered with great gaiety.

“I know my way around the realm, my lady,” I said. “The privies are yonder.”

“Oh, god. Please don’t start talking like that,” my lovely wife answered.

“Go forth on your journey, my lady! And when you shall return, I shall go relieve my royal shaft,” I said with bluster.

Sarah walked away laughing and was soon awash in a sea of Renaissance patrons dressed as wizards, warlocks, and knights. I looked down at Murphy.

“Want to go shoot a crossbow?” I asked.