The Wombat Invasion of Fiesta: A Cynical Goat's Tale
By Maurice the Goat
Let me tell you something about Fiesta in San Antonio—it's the only spectacle that makes Las Vegas look like a church bake sale and Mardi Gras seem like a neighborhood block party for recovering introverts. For eleven days, the city transforms into a collective hallucination of humanity's deep-seated need to pay exorbitant prices for the privilege of standing in line for mediocre beer.
Night in Old San Antonio, the three-day extravaganza where humans empty their wallets faster than a politician changes promises, is the crown jewel of this bacchanal. You pay what could feed a family of four for a week just to walk through the gates, then you pay again for food that's been marked up so dramatically it should come with its own investment prospectus.
But this year, something remarkable happened. Something that made me, a cynical old goat who's seen enough human foolishness to last several lifetimes, actually perk up my ears.
The wombats arrived.
Nobody asked for wombats. Nobody expected wombats. The tourism board certainly didn't advertise wombats. But there they were—squat, muscular marsupials from Australia dressed impeccably as doormen, complete with pillbox hats and gold-braided uniforms that somehow fit their rectangular bodies like a geometrically inclined savant had tailored them.
They appeared first at the river parade, positioning themselves at strategic intervals along the famous River Walk. As illuminated floats drifted by like crystallized chunks of human excess, the wombats stood at attention, checking nonexistent tickets with grave importance.
"Excuse me, sir, but your enjoyment level appears insufficient for this sector," one wombat informed a portly man in a guayabera shirt who'd paid $75 for his riverfront seat. "I'll need to see your Fun Permit or I'll have to ask you to smile wider immediately."
The man, confounded by being addressed by a species that shouldn't be speaking English—or standing upright, for that matter—merely nodded and stretched his lips into a grimace that resembled a crocodile with lockjaw.
By the second night, the wombats had infiltrated the food booths. They redirected lines, creating elaborate spirals that led bewildered festival-goers through unnecessary detours past every overpriced food option before delivering them back to their original destination.
"The scenic route enhances flavor profiles," explained an officious wombat when questioned. "Also, we're conducting important research on human patience thresholds when confronted with the scent of fried dough."
On the third night, as mariachi music collided with Tejano beats and the air grew thick with the smell of churros and spilled margaritas, the wombats' true agenda revealed itself. They gathered at the center of the festivities and began an elaborate dance routine that hypnotized onlookers with its geometric precision and marsupial grace.
And in that bizarre moment, as humans stood slack-jawed watching wombats perform a synchronized swimming routine on dry land, Fiesta transformed from an overpriced celebration of conspicuous consumption into something genuinely, deliriously absurd.
Which, this cynical goat must admit, is probably what festivals should be all about anyway.