I am remiss in my duties to tell everyone that I went to Disneyland.
Neener, neener.
As deeply jaded and sarcastic as I freely admit that I am, I still get giddy at the very idea of going to Disneyland…and I have no idea why.
Perhaps it’s the instant nostalgia that is conjured by images of the old Matterhorn, or the Yo-Ho of Pirates of the Caribbean. Maybe it’s the rush of riding California Screamin’ for the fifteenth time, or dropping 13 floors in the fantastically cool Tower of Terror. Maybe it’s the churros.
My kids are old enough to appreciate it, and I don’t have to push a stroller or change diapers. I am also not so old that I can’t move quickly enough to devour every inch of both parks in one day, resulting in multiple disneygasms.
Besides nearly defecating from fear on the Sunwheel, it was a damn good time. Interestingly, it’s tradition of being the “happiest place on earth” did not stop me from wanting to sever the jugulars of a few dickwads in mouse ears. I mean, WHY do people feel the need to try to pass you in line? Seriously. I wanted to shove a big, white glove wearin’ Mickey Mouse hand into one guy’s ass, and punch it back out through his nutsack because he was trying to edge past us to go into the Tower of Terror. He almost got slammed in the face by the automatic lobby doors that swing outward, and I would have pointed and laughed as he cupped his broken and bleeding nose. It’s just so unnecessary.
This trip also reinforced the fact that I loathe those “mommy” type of women who have ponytails pulled through baseball caps, and wear those unsightly athletic pants with clingy white t-shirts, and form a human chain of toddlers that are allowed to freely meander down Main Street, causing everyone else to have to slow down to get around them. Put the little fuckers in the goddamn stroller and get the hell out of the way.
One bitch in particular actually had the nerve to tell my son to get off of the big “C” in California Adventure, WHILE I WAS TAKING HIS PICTURE, so that HER little bastards could pose for a photo. I said, “I’M TAKING A PICTURE!” and she just looked at me with that vapid expression that these women have when someone outside of their little bubble speaks to them, and merrily went about photographing her hellspawn. This interaction made me very vividly imagine what it would be like to ball up my fist, and drive my knuckles right into her mouth, knocking out her four front, bottom teeth, and then stand there and watch her teeth fall to the ground (or stick to the front of her) while a copious stream of bloody drool poured out of her mouth and tinged her pretty, clingy white shirt with pink striations and that faint and familiar metallic smell indicative of significant blood loss…
then I smiled and went about my merry Disney day.
