Conejo Valley Days Chili Cook-Off

After being faced with near death experiences in Pomona, I went to the far safer haven of Thousand Oaks to do battle with a line-up of the best chili west of the Mississippi. To successfully undertake this excursion, I initially recruited Roxie and Bernadette.
It all started at Jack’s, a restaurant in Westlake where the breakfast far outshines the scattershot service. I relented, instead choosing to save my hearty appetite for the real deal.
Roxie then added the majestically precious prowess of Dani Devlin to the fray, fulfilling the prophecy told days ago to universal disbelief. She's the best triple fister on record.
Lucky for us the road sodas blasted our buzzes to a whole new level of understanding before the clock even struck noon.
Apparently the Rotary Club of Thousand Oaks isn’t up to speed on the marvels of modern technology, and that providing ATMs mean more cash in their bank account. I consistently followed up my chili bowls with beer, and since there wasn’t an ATM on site, Dani became my ATM machine by default after I expeditiously blew through a twenty.
I love the fact that Roxie and Dani have elite expertise in finagling extra beers by utilizing authoritative flirtational devices which are calmly at their disposal.
The festival location was expansive, so it was unproblematic moving around, plus you didn’t have to bump into shirtless hillbillies with excessively pungent apocrine sweat glands. Just watch out for the bikers. On the bright side, there certainly wasn’t a shortage of foxy ladies, trollops, twists and beautiful booty.
I also came across the effervescent charms of Vicky Vale, a good friend of Roxie that exudes tenderness naturally.
Vicky firmly believed that the taste of the day was unquestionably the Shake ‘N Bake.
I tried the Shake ‘N Bake, actually returned for a three ticket cup before they got tapped out.
The cook-off has become a Conejo Valley Days fixture dating back to 1977. With more than 75 different types of chili, I was only able to consume somewhere between 10-15 kinds. Some of the kids stuck to kettle corn.
To top it off, we were temporarily entertained by the neighborhood talent, as seen here by random band that thrashed through a set of indecipherable melodies and screams.
Banshees can’t cry as well as tattooed lead singer guy. Unlike The Glass House, beer made these musicians tolerable.
During this form of sensory overload, kids were running rampant everywhere, and Roxie has tough time resisting contact.
My winner for best chili of the day goes to Texas Chainsaw Chili.
I loved how red they got their chili, like they surreptitiously dripped blood from severed limbs into a vat of beans and seasoning to deliver such a vivid color.
The chili spices dug their hooks into my flesh, a heated passion took hold of my attentions regarding secret ingredients, and I had to have more.
We agreed that Cincinati Style finished 2nd place. As a side note, never before have I seen such an intricate collection of inked humans, tattoos everywhere within eyesight, complex body art for the renegades and cheap alternatives for the posers.
Some of the tattoos were really bad, others were loved by Jesus.
He was the coolest guy I met at the cook-off. The bonus was his legitimately hilarious buddy, and he couldn't keep his wandering eyes from this girl.
Roxie opted to fit in, and the best way conceivable was to get tatted up.
Well, in this case, it was done by airbrushing.
She made a friend during the process, something I tend to see with regularity.
I told her that haystacks and Daisy Dukes were all you needed to blend in. Tony Montana of Scarface fame was well represented by a local Thousand Oaks hustler.
NASCAR had to be represented in order to register with the high standards I have for events in the countryside for bare-chested rednecks.
Police presence was assured, on duty to prevent the assailable potential drunkards can achieve.
D.A.R.E. propaganda was present because of the growing crystal meth calamity that has invaded Ventura County like a terminal illness possessed by halfwits.
The useless rollercoaster was spooky and abandoned; its rickety appearance from the distance led me to believe that inoperability was best to avoid ambulance dramatics.
We didn’t need a tragedy brought to you live by the local news chopper from the chili cook-off. Drinking more was a safe bet.
The only call of “that’s so white trash” came directed at Roxie when I snapped a photo of her with Angelina Jolie.
Didn’t really understand what made such an act fall into the classification of “white trash,” and I couldn’t locate the seriously rude female in question. I decided to eat more chili and drink more ice cold beer, threatening those around that I might remove my shirt. The kid didn't care.
Awards were given for “People’s Choice,” “Best Booth,” “Showmanship” and “Best Chili,” all of which were judged by a panel of International Chili Society members and alleged dignitaries that probably bought their titles just to get fatter on self-importance. I was excited about the awards presentation until I got highly intoxicated and bloated, so we took the show elsewhere to undoubtedly entertain others with our exalted Bashing credentials.
Once we finished stuffing ourselves silly, we B-lined over to the nearby market for much needed alcohol and flowers.
The first stop was Debbie’s abode, where we mutually decided that drinking more alcohol would foster a superb state of being, as though we needed any more nectar of the Gods. Dani implored me to drink more, using combative language well.
It was good to catch rays and throw a few back over lively conversation while rambunctious kids terrorized us.
I started talking to Ted, who expounded greatly on the virtues of Coors Light, the silver bullet.
We moved on an hour later, this time to a bar I have little recollection of. The saving grace of taking copious amounts of photos is that the blank spots in memory become filled on demand, or the next day.
I did remember when we were getting stared down by this sloshed degenerate scumbag.
I approached him in a friendly manner, curious as to why his gawking gazes were trained on us, whether we were being offensive in any way, and also to examine his psychological makeup. He remained hair-raisingly silent.
With peculiarity upon us the only solution was to pull cord, and we did it swiftly. So we journeyed to our next stop, and at this point I’d entered the hazy drunken warp that frequently afflicts all-day boozers in the heat of the valley.
We were in a backyard, I guess, and I vaguely recollect being proficient at scoring goals from the distance. There was also a little boy running around with boundless energy.

This is where my thought process became obscured by glorious Bashing.I also recall us drinking Miller High Life, the champagne of beers.
I wish I remembered the name of Roxie’s friend, because I dimly recall her being very accommodating, like maybe she offered me fruit or a smoke or something.
Regardless, she was very nice. On the other side of the spectrum, Dani’s Bashing skills will certainly qualify her as a nominee for Basher of the Year.

I can say with confidence she’s an expert in the field, something I couldn’t quite gauge during our moments together at Keith’s Mardi Gras Bash.
Gastronomical suffering reached a new peak when I was awakened by a rogue jackhammer outside, and my open eyes were quickly cast downward at my abnormally inflated belly size that contained a dull pain. I refuse to float forth any details of my morning, mostly for the sake of avoiding the disgust any puritanical ears could express.