It’s like riding the Hell Hole, owning real estate right now. You strap yourself up against a wall, the thing starts to spin. Slowly. Then it’s spinning so fast, the whole bottom drops out and you’re screaming, your face mushed by G forces, eyeballing the VOID. Which reminds me…The only other ride I ever took. It was at Disneyworld. And don’t even let’s even go there. About how I ended up at THAT Hell Hole. My kids talked me into going on something called the Incredible Journey. A tour of the human body. No problem, I figured. It’s educational. So I sit down in a normal auditorium seat and the lights dim. Pretty soon, we’re rocketing down some coronary artery and I’m so dizzy, I’m going to vomit. I’m curled up in the fetal position, eyes closed, moaning. The screen goes black. The lights come up. Two security guys loom over me. ”Please come with us, ma’am,” they say. Like I’m being arrested for murder. My kids are dead of embarrassment. Mortified. Clutching the arms of these pumped up Disney drones, I ask how they knew I was sick.
“We’re always watching, ma’am,” they said, ominously. “We saw you on the monitor.”
But what came after the ride was even more ominous. We lunched at Winnie the Pooh’s Restaurant.
“I’d like a nice glass of chilled Chardonnay,” I said to the 80 year-old crone/waitress. She was dressed like Christopher Robin in drag.
“So would I,” she whispered. “But Disneyworld is dry.”
“No f’ing way,” I said while some over-sized,obnoxious Tigger stuck his paw in my face with a camera.
“What about Cinderella’s castle,” I asked, swatting the paw away with my fist.”They must serve some kind of mead or beer over there. It’s medieval.”
“No, dear. There is no alcohol permitted at Disney.”
Medieval is right, I thought, scarfing down an inedible salad while a number of obese families in short shorts walked by, knawing turkey legs the size of police truncheons.