I love it when movies display their last scene first, especially when it's some cathartic mess of humanity, like a Coen brother's Ambien-induced, wood chipper nightmare.

So here's my Tuesday night closing shot at the State Fair of Virginia: I'm standing there with my fiancé and we're playing tug-of-war with a giant, chocolate-covered chunk of fried dough. We're both wearing enough powdered sugar to be the "before" picture in a Head & Shoulders commercial. She's holding a giant stuffed Rottweiler puppy filled with Styrofoam and coat hangers. I have bag of rare hot sauces, including the classy $9 glass flask of Colon Cleaner. In front of us there's a chimpanzee on a leash wearing jams and a jersey, trying to catch soapy bubbles midair while the trainer, who looks like a post-op, gender-bending Crocodile Dundee, commands the crowd.

Of course, my fiancé and I are both full, happy and glad we parked far enough away to burn off at least the loaded baked potato we shared.

There's your friggin' State Fair commercial right there. Forget the real spot with the woman who captures the magical fair nostalgia in a mason jar. I give fair organizers permission to recreate our scene and splash it over the local channels. Although I'm not sure Jenn will talk to me even after writing that.

As you now know, we both took Tuesday night off from the Fan restaurant scene of mediocre crab cakes, PBR and tramp-stamped hostesses and headed to RIR to check out what this State Fair thing was all about. Here's what we found …

Old MacDonald Sightings

As a little kid visiting the New York State Fair, I was only interested in going on the rides, which "Dateline" has since taught me are only operated by meth-addicted drifters. But now that I'm 30, I have an appreciation for things growing out of the ground … and the things that eat those things.

That's why Jenn and I lingered longer in the Power of Agriculture showcase and the adjoining animal pens and exhibits. We hung out with beekeepers, saw kids frolicking in a popcorn kernel "sandbox" and ogled prize-winning produce, including 800-pound pumpkins and gourds with ribbons attached. I'm not sure how you become a gourd judge, but I'm pretty sure it's a step up from a figure skating judge.

From there, it was on to the goats, sheep and swine, where "Man of Constant Sorrow" was playing from a black boom box beside a sheep-shearing demonstration. I should add that affixed to all the animal tents was a sign that reads as follows: "Food beverages, pacifiers and baby bottles are discouraged in animal areas." I like the choice of the word, "discouraged." Does the fair have lawyers? Also, if I was feeling dangerous, could I sprint through the booths of sheep with three dozen pacifiers and a rump roast -- and see what happens? And since when can babies read?

One other fun fact about the animal exhibitions: You can bring home living, breathing souvenirs. Whether you want to buy six baby chicks for $15 or adopt a bunny, Sea Monkeys just got a lot more boring. It's like a petting zoo on layaway (another phrase I'm letting the State Fair marketers "borrow" from me).

Ghosts of Carneys Past

The fair and carney scene has always been known for tummy-turning rides, slippery games of chance and delicious, fried food fare.

We started with the last one. You really need to scout out your food options at the State Fair before diving in; you don't want to buy a "New York style" pizza slice from a trailer with Delaware license plates. So after careful consideration, I choose Porky's, a massive compound of tents, smoke and larger-than life chops. Porky's even had a singing pig mascot, the animatronic distant redneck cousin of Chuck E. Cheese, who crooned "Cotton Eyed Joe" while you drooled over the menu.

I settled on a concoction that would make Fat Elvis blush -- a pork parfait made up of pulled pork, mashed potatoes and thick, steamy BBQ sauce. It looked like a real dessert and tasted better. By the way, Porky's was a horseshoe toss from the swine barn, making me think twice about what happened to those pigs not fortunate enough to win a ribbon. I even thought about weaving a bacon grease web pronouncing "Some Pig!" at each stable, but instead continued eating.

Everyone knows there's no better chaser to fair food than fair rides. We decided to take it easy on our G.I. tracts and take the slow-moving Ferris Wheel for $5 a pop. The ramshackle contraption was called the "Century Wheel," and unfortunately was placed right next to the old-timey frontier town, leading Jenn to rattle off the best line of the night, "Ughm, exactly what century is it?"

We decided to end on the trifecta of mandatory fair fun by visiting a dart game on the midway, where the barker quickly convinced me that $10 for seven darts was a bargain. After hitting a mere three balloons (once of which the barkers popped out of sympathy) he coaxed us into another seven for $10 deal, after which we could have our choice of any oversized plush animal in the booth. And we chose the Rottweiler, but not before the attendant got this zinger in on me, "You're not playing for that other girl I saw you with, right?" No, sir, my other girl is allergic to fiberglass. And bad jokes.

Before Jenn and I struck the climatic, romantic pose at the end of the night outside the chimpanzee show that I alluded to in the beginning of this column, we made a few more stops.

We met the "Food Dude" hocking hot sauces in the exhibition hall who warned us that peppers grown outside the southern hemisphere "just won't do." We talked to a couple winning student robot builders, who were taking their mean machine, Blue Cheese, out for a test drive. We toured the CSPAN bookmobile (actually a bus, who knew?) We watched the State Fair parade march by proudly, which started with a band, was followed by a pageant winner (Miss Walkerton Fire), trailed by some smiling chaps aboard antique trailers and finally ended with a solitary gent in classy Confederate grays riding a golf cart. And we got our fried dough, topped with chocolate, and called it a night.

Would we go back? Absolutely! Would we change anything? Well, maybe we'd choose the purple brontosaurus potholder over the stuffed dog prize next time

Tickets and Pricing

Tickets for one day (walk around ticket) are $8 Monday through Friday after 5 p.m., $11 any weekday and $13 Sat and Sun. Ages two and under are admitted free.  Military discount pricing is also available. For more information check out http://www.statefair.com/home. 

Mike Ward is a Richmond-based writer and editor. Learn more at www.underdogcopy.com.