A Few Things To Remember If You Get The Giant Turkey Leg At The Indiana State Fair

First off, it's heavy. I can tell you that it's heavy, and you can believe me, but when the vendor lady hands you that gargantuan smoked drumstick you'll still emit a little involuntary grunt ("Woof!"), just like everybody else, and you'll still make some self-conscious comment on the heft of the thing, just like everybody else.

As you stand there holding the leg, it'll also cross your mind that if, instead of eating it, you had the occasion to, say, bludgeon somebody upside the head with it, this drumstick of doom you're wielding, that would probably work just fine too. "Entree, or concealed weapon?" you may wonder to yourself.

Then, as you start in, you'll make the next discovery, which is this: It's really, really hot. The bottom part you hold it by is pretty hot, but trust me: it's nothing compared to the steamin' meatpod on the other end.

But eventually you just have to commit to the drumstick and dig in. Sure there are people around; you knew that when you bought it. My advice is to get right to it, gnaw with gusto, make it count -- gaping bystanders be damned.

Otherwise you're going to be kind of nibbling at it, sneaking up on it, furtively chomping here and there when you think nobody's looking.

Everybody's looking.

So you might as well attack it. Let that turkey leg know who's boss. Don't take any guff. Once you're feeling it, really embracing your inner carnivore, you'll probably start noticing an inflated sense of rawness and primal masculinity -- this is normal.

And yes, there are a lot of girls looking at you, but look up from your frenzied gnawing and examine those expressions more closely. That's not actually awestruck, googly-eyed man-worship at all. No sir. They're horrified.

And rightly so: it's the 21st century around here, and there you stand, right in the middle of the Midway, ripping through a dismembered turkey leg like you haven't eaten in a week. (Which you definitely have -- remember the hand-cut potato chips and the elephant ear you just wolfed down five minutes ago? If not, you will ... give it another half hour or so.)

So go ahead, skulk off to your cave and consume the spoils of victory. If there's no cave handy, that shady spot over by the Dairy Barn will do. Wash it down with a nice glass of chocolate milk, or a Lemon Shake-Up, or both.

Discard the bones in a lined barrel somewhere (not by the Poultry Barn, you savage) and forage on, satisfied in your culinary marauding.

You've got about an hour until the coma sets in.