Archive for the ‘Degradation of Society’ Category
maternal sacrifices
You're bathing with THIS guy.
Ask any mother the meaning of maternal sacrifice and she need only point to her stretch marks and not-yet-lifted breasts to show you.
Long after we’ve lost the 50-cough pounds we gained during pregnancy and managed to endure enough Music with Mar classes to make anyone want to stab themselves in the ear with a Play-Doh knife, the sacrifices continue.
My daughter is now six, and I still marvel at what I’d do for this persuasive little person.
Take this weekend for example. Somehow our trip to Magic Kingdom turned into an inaugural visit to Typhoon Lagoon: one of Disney’s two reservoirs for liquid waste.
My daughter has developed a penchant for swimming in subzero temperature waters. A desire I think one loses roughly after the age of eight. So once I failed to convince her that Epcot and a convertible when she turns 16 was way more fun than swimming in Arctic cesspools, I found myself sporting a completely impractical bikini top (natch), paralyzed by the pimpled backs of strangers I knew I’d soon be “bathing” with in the park’s ridiculously dangerous wave pool.
A few glacial waves into the morning my fear of incurable skin diseases was overcome by paranoia that one of the typical turkey leg-eating Disney goers would crash into my 40-pound child splashing around like a water fairy blissfully unaware of the pool’s bacterial load. So I strategically positioned myself in front of her knowing I’d lessen the impact of whatever sort of beast washed over her with every wave. It was then that I spotted a man who I’m convinced could be mistaken for the Loch Ness Monster based on neck length alone. While I wondered how it was humanly possible for his torso to be as tall as it was round, he stared back at me licking his smacks like Chilly Willy eyeing Smedley-turned hotdog.
Sure as my nibbies were frozen into icicles stabbing holes into my string bikini, the next wave brought Nessie crashing into my cerebellum with the force of a tequila hangover. Once I surfaced from the Tsunami of blubber and hair, I looked around to first make sure my child was afloat. Only after I established that she was still breathing, did I assess my own shattered parts.
“Can we take a break from the wave pool?” I begged my little fish. “Mommy may or may not have a skull fracture, broken clavicle and six bruised ribs.”
My daughter agreed to the break, but only because just seconds earlier she realized that she needed to use the restroom. Judging from the look of alarm on her face and the knowledge we both had that the wave pool comprises 90% urine, I knew that her emergency would require a complete shutdown of Typhoon Lagoon if we didn’t exit that pool. Now.
So we Olympic hurdle jumped our way over Nessie’s offspring to exit the cesspool in search of a restroom, located (mother bitch!) on the other side of the park and nowhere near the lockers which housed our only footwear. Now would be a good time to admit that I contemplated which would be more disgusting: my daughter defecating in her swimsuit or me entering a public restroom barefoot.
Fortunately for her self-esteem, I did not mandate a detour to the lockers and instead beelined straight into the slimy-floored bathroom that I’m pretty sure will guarantee a toenail fungus so severe my nails will grow up instead of out.
Luckily, we made it. Sort of. I would be remiss if I didn’t include the part about me taking her swimsuit bottoms and scrubbing them out with fistfuls of hand soap in the Typhoon Lagoon showers so that we could return for another round of wave pool torture.
Now brace yourself for this: I entered the bathroom barefoot for the rest of the day. Sure, I was on tiptoes and more than a little grossed out, but even for a germaphobe like me, wearing sandals after already using the facilities without them seemed a bit like wearing a condom with a guy I already had sex with several times without. Logic screamed, “If you have heel herpes, sandals can’t help you now!”
So after a day of shivering and contemplating what sort of infectious diseases we’d bring back as souvenirs, my daughter and I finally made it to Magic kingdom for an evening of fireworks and a few shows.
As we sat watching Mickey’s PhilharMagic 4D for the 800th time, I caught a glimpse of her giggling as she reached out to catch the rubies Ariel threw to the audience. And I think it was in that moment of beauty and wide-eyed innocence that I realized getting neck fucked by the Loch Ness Monster was a small price to pay for her joy.
newark: the armpit of our nation
I don’t know what the actual percentage is of delays out of Liberty International Airport, but my personal record is approaching 300%.
This overheated, Sanka-serving abomination is like the Venus Flytrap of travel.
Everything seems dandy (albeit curry scented) until you pass through the 2-hour long security line naked and arrive at your Starbucks-free gate. Where 5,000 Affliction-sporting passengers are clamoring for a cup of instant coffee and a cream cheese bagel because that’s all there is. Unless of course you’re hungry enough to salt an “I heart NY” T-shirt, which I might do in a second to protest the lack of restaurants. Suffice it to say I’d settle for a salt water taffy kiosk at this point.
Here in terminal A, you should know there is only one bathroom with three sensor toilets that attempt to flush the tampon from the woman before you down into the NJ water supply, but instead just tear it apart and then cough it back up as a gift to you for waiting patiently in line. I guess maybe the lack of dining options can be a blessing.
Not until you arrive at this standing-room only gate with no first class club do you realize the oily haired man laying on the floor uncomfortably close to your Burberry messenger bag is fresh off a NYC subway, clearly eager to fly to a place where hygiene is completely superfluous. You resist the urge to tell him, “You’ve arrived, my friend.”
I finally score an empty seat facing the Hudson News stand equipped with three men’s interest magazines (Popular Mechanics anyone?) and a man telling the airport’s hotspot to “Fuck off” because he cannot log on to it after furiously tapping away at his iPad for what seems like hours.
The proximity of my head to the man seated behind me is disconcerting at best because I actually smell his unwashed hair. And besides looking into an ear canal filled with wax, there is nothing that turns my stomach more. It might be time to offer my seat to an elderly person and earn some good karma points in the hopes that I can cash in and get the fuck out of here this week.
Just as I’m about to get up to flee Sir Stinky Scalps, iPad starts to speak to me.
“Are you goin’ to Tampa?” he asks.
Finding the pores on his nose, as large as peppercorns, distracting, I pause for a second and stare.
“You look like you’re from Florida,” he adds.
I can’t help but wonder what looking like being from Florida looks like. Is it that I’m blonde? Less than 300 pounds? Not wearing a diamond-encrusted nameplate?
I tell him I’m going to Tampa. “If we ever get there. ” And then secretly will the airport’s WiFi to work so that I can slip away and attempt a potty break in a toilet that doesn’t look like a crime scene.
“You look like this girl I know named Stephanie.”
“Oh,” I answer. Wondering what his Biore strips look like.
“Yeah, she works at Sebastian’s in Clearwater.”
I’m intrigued since I immediately assume Sebastian’s is a topless bar and he’s going to proposition me for a blowjob any second.
“Yeah,” he explains. “It’s like a convenience store by Feathersound. You know…by the gas station.”
I sink back into my chair, never thinking that he could surpass the BJ proposition with something even more insulting.
To be fair, New Jersey is not kind to me. The toxic waste in the water might make for the best bagels and pizza dough, but it also deposits enough poison on my hair to turn it a brassy shade of pee. My face has been so swollen since I arrived last week that I actually resorted to applying Preparation H in the mornings so that I look less like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade Float. But…
“A convenience store?” I ask. “I look like someone who works at like, a 7-11?”
Why can’t I look like somebody smart? Sure, maybe I wouldn’t feel exactly beautiful if my twin was the Pinellas Circuit Court judge, but at least I’d be confident she had all her teeth and could make change for a dollar.
As Biore Boy rambled off more detail about Stephanie than anyone wants to know (widow; husband was multimillionaire who committed suicide, et al) I realized that I should not be conversing with random travelers who were just in the down dog position over their iPads.
So I’m bidding my friend adieu and heading to the T-shirt stand. I just hope they have Dijon mustard.
top 10 reasons to boycott busch gardens
10. The Tap Out/Affliction to non-douchebag ratio is alarmingly high.
9. There is a 100% chance you will eat something that has you running an extra mile tomorrow morning or at the very least to Walgreens to buy Prevacid.
8. You will spend $50 on games and still come home empty handed.
7. You will play one game and end up winning a husky the size of Winnebago that you are then forced to carry on your back through the park.
6. You will have to explain to your 6-year-old daughter at least three times why some boys think it’s appropriate behavior to spit on the sidewalk.
5. No drink lids may help save the environment, but they will not save your Badgley Mischka purse from lemonade spills.
4. Amazingly, all the sex offenders seem to congregate in the Jungala area where your daughter just crawled out of sight into a tunnel.
3. Thanks to the overabundance of tourists and popcorn, the odds of a bird pooping on you are about 80%.
2. The turkey leg concessions are scattered throughout the park, but concentrated in areas where you are already most nauseated from smelling the elephant excrement.
1. Public flossing.
hey – pimp my ride
Got news for you. Supporting the “Police Athletic League” is not going to stop the cops from pulling you over at a random traffic stop to search your completely limo-tinted, tricked-out stretch Mercedes thus finding your silicone prostate massager, cinnamon-flavored throat numbing spray and methamphetamine collection in the trunk. Nice try though.
smell like cabbage. got small hands
As we usher in the Autumn season, I welcome the many changes it brings. The temperature drops from a crisp 95 to 93 degrees, and the amount of dirt I blow out of my nose increases threefold.
Anyone with children knows I am, of course, referring to the weekly Fall “Festibals” (my in-speech-therapy-daughter also told me she prefers the other “virgin” of Miley Cyrus’ Party in the USA song. I was so shocked to hear the words virgin and Miley Cyrus uttered in the same sentence, I didn’t even bother to correct her).
What is it about these church carnivals that has us flocking to dirt fields year after year to pay toothless sex offenders to lift and strap our small children into rusted contraptions that are about to implode any second without ever even stopping to remove the unfiltered cigarettes from their mouths? The place where despite the 10:1 odds in favor of e-coli contamination, we still fork over $8 (or two weeks alimony) for a bag of kettle corn that at the very least makes you wonder what sort of flesh-eating parasites are swimming around at the bottom of that smoking, copper toilet bowl.
It’s at these fairs that we are reminded the devil of all temptation is not a naked Vegas hooker holding a winning lottery ticket and the cure for cancer at your bachelor party. It’s funnel cake. Wafting past the mounds of dirt blocking my nostrils like fried Oreos guarantee to do to my arteries. Begging me to disregard the imminent asstastrophe should I give in to this greasy compulsion. I’m pretty sure the inventor of Elmer’s glue did nothing more than patent what is left on your fingers once you’ve licked off the mixture of powdered sugar, recycled grease and saliva after eating a funnel cake the size of a hubcap.
So swept up in the nostalgia of it all, we never even stop to consider the same lard that’s frying your french fries and funnel cake is also used for anything from corndogs to chicken nuggets to lubing the spokes on the Tilt a Hurl. By no means am I suggesting I get nauseated from spinning around in circles at 60 mph until the carnie finishes his cigarette or someone vomits into the air splashing passersby with chunks of cotton candy and turkey leg. What makes me queasy when I am forced to board this twirling tuna can due to some bullshit height requirement is that all those corroded cars smell just like the urine-soaked floors of the Port Authority bathroom. And the rusty stench on your fingers after you chose clutching the metal Tilt a Hurl’s wheel over a head injury? It requires at least 10 Purell wipes and three hand washes to remove. Minimum.
Fond childhood memories of our junior high boyfriend winning us a Menudo poster at the carnival must be what lures us in to play these games over and over again, spending the equivalent of a pair of Stuart Weitzman wedges on trying to win a giant stuffed Saint Bernard carrying enough scabies in his barrel to infest the Swiss Alps.
This afternoon, my 6-year-old tried to talk me into playing a $5-per-player game that a moustached, yellow-toothed (singular), Wrangler-sporting child molester promised would yield a “winner every time.” Anyone who has ever had a neuron synapse understands that the giant Scooby Doo toy hanging behind this convict is among the “Choice” prizes, which means you either have to beat 30 people playing at one time, or you have to trade up the gazillion erasers and Tootsie Rolls you just won for being a big loser. I could only imagine the disappointment on my little girl’s face when and if she did finally pop that balloon, and the ex-con proceeded to reach past Scooby to get the basket of Dum Dums for her to choose from. So I convinced her that we needed to leave. It was getting late. But most importantly, I had to pee. And unless I’m 23, drunk and tailgating, there is no way I’m using a Port a Potty. As we walked to the car, I couldn’t help but notice the disappointment on her face. My bladder ignored this. Driving toward Starbucks I glanced in my rearview mirror and spotted some tears.
“Honey, come on. It’s just a toy. A toy that costs the equivalent of a mortgage payment to win. But just a toy.”
Now the waterworks started. Bringing on the urgency to pee even more.
“It’s not just a toy, ” she protested. “It’s Scooby Doo. And. I. Love. That. Show.”
Call me a sucker. Or just someone who’s very very bad at being poor. But I turned my car around and headed back into that trench to spend the remainder of my alimony on trying to win a Scooby Doo toy that is big enough to have collapsed the Chilean mines.
Now, Scooby Dirty Doo is sleeping soundly next to his little stalker while I google how to remove bed bugs, scabies and ringworm from her sheets.
- Sometimes, after attending a fair with my daughter, I send my childless friend Lucas Lightning Retardo-Montalban pictures such as these with a subject line that reads: Vasectomy
nothing tests your patience or olfactory willpower like disney
Just returned from Disney, and I’m once again faced with the age-old question that plagues theme park visitors far and wide (especially wide): wash my clothes in the 2-hour sanitary rinse cycle or just throw them away?
Visiting six theme parks in four days is a lot like Nutella. In theory, chocolate and hazelnut should be a scrumptious coupling, but kids don’t exactly fight over it in the school cafeteria. I mean, sure, my weekend featured plenty of Disney magic, wonder and excitement. Like when I spotted the caffeinated oasis that is Starbucks across the lake at Universal Studios. Or when the couple sporting bride and groom Mickey ears accepted my Soarin’ fastpasses in exchange for promising to never kiss in public again.
But it always seemed like my joy was tempered by the fact that I’d get stuck in line next to a British woman with Nanny McPhee-like warts dangling out of her earlobes. Or behind a guy in the Toy Story line who for 84 minutes burped up his breakfast sausage in my direction. I can shut down my olfactories long enough to use a public restroom. But an 84-minute ride queue? About 30 minutes into that line I was secretly hoping the Toy Story ride included me plummeting to my death.
Irritating people: Disney’s biggest attraction
And then of course each day promised enough Space Violators, Slow Walkers and Loud Talkers to make anyone want to lay across the tracks at Test Track. With so many different categories of idiocy, it was really hard to determine who was the most annoying:
– The Crossers: typically they travel in groups of four or more and lack the brainpower to understand the typical flow of pedestrian traffic. Crossers like to make sudden diagonal or horizontal jumps across crowds, forcing people all around them to stop short, tumble or face-plant into me.
– The Stoppers: completely oblivious to the world around them, Stoppers aim to find the most congested area within any crowd to come to a screeching halt to read a map, calculate their body mass index, or ask their partner where “that hotdog place is at.”
– The Roadblockers: a close relative to the Slow Walker, Roadblockers contain three or more usually overweight people who clasp hands tightly forming a human chain of adipose tissue across any walkway or path. Even with a stroller and child outfitted with steel-reinforced boots and the instruction to point her toes like pistols, it is nearly impossible to break through this blockade (the only exception being when the Starbucks at Universal is closing in 15 minutes and you’ve been told you may not swim across the lake to get there).
– The Waiters: regardless of line length, Waiters will wait until the second they are at the ticket turnstile to even attempt to locate their passes. Waiters also decide what they’re having for lunch the minute they reach the cashier and not while they just waited in a 30-minute line complete with Jumbotron menus featured in three different languages as well as laminated menus handed to them two days ago by Disney employees. Because Waiters like to see me decompensate into a fit of tears on the ground because I’m so hungry, they also frequently ask questions such as, “How many pieces of lettuce are in the garden salad?” before finally ordering.
I’d be remiss if I didn’t add the following people to my “Why Didn’t YOU Get Lost in the Honey I Shrunk the Kids Playground Instead of my Child?” list:
– Anyone who gnaws on a turkey leg. Since when is tearing into an animal carcass the size of Cinderella’s castle while you sit on a steaming hot sidewalk acceptable behavior?
– Disney newlyweds. Um, sorry, but I fail to see the romance in fanny packs, foot odor and Mickey ears.
– New Yorkers
– Adults who get their “passports” stamped at Epcot countries.
You can’t live on 42-ounce fountain cokes and funnel cake: I’ve tried
If you do decide to visit Orlando for a theme parkathon and are concerned about where to take a little respite from the incorrigible crowds, I can recommend two excellent napping areas:
– Ellen’s Energy Adventure ride at Epcot (it’s dark, cold and 37 minutes long).
– The light on International Drive and Orangewood Blvd. It is a little longer than Ellen’s, but no dinosaurs.
As far as dining goes, if you’ve ever contemplated a liquid fast, now’s the time. Admittedly the veggie burgers at Cosmic Rays in Magic Kingdom are edible because you can hide their taste with sautéed mushrooms, onions and other toppings from the topping bar. Just try to ignore the people who so clearly are just eating plates of toppings. Witnessing this will not allow you to eat anything. Ever. Again.
You may want to visit the potty first
If you are incontinent or just drank an iced trenta passion tea, I do not recommend riding the Jimmy Neutron Blast at Universal Studios. It’s amazing to me that they have warnings for pregnant women, people with heart conditions or back problems, but nowhere does it say, “Those with bladders the size of thimbles may not ride.” That really may explain the smell.
Sure they boast a lazy river and 4-star accommodations, but who cares?
Because Disney hotels contain enough allergens to make my eyes puffy for a week following my stay, I’ve become a regular guest at the JW Marriott Grande Lakes. Primarily because they have a Starbucks in the lobby. But they do serve a fantastic breakfast buffet at Citron that often is complimentary with your stay if you book using the AAA rate. Blah, blah, blah. They have a Starbucks.
Living Poor Life Coach gives me an A- for the weekend
My “Living Poor Life Coach” approves of the JW Marriott (if not the $28 nightly valet), and that I refrained from stopping at the Burberry outlet on my way home tonight. And, yes, maybe my daughter would have preferred the $6 pizza outside of Mission Space. But the $19.50 pizza in Italy that she didn’t eat included a street show if you craned your neck. And stood up on your chair.
I think it’s even possible I’ll get extra credit for refusing to pay $35 for express valet at Universal and instead pay only $25 for the regular valet (which means you could walk to your hotel and back three times before they bother to bring you your car).
I’m just afraid any earned extra credit will be offset by my $149pp SeaWorld passport ticket expenditure so that we could attend the last hour of its “Spooktacular.” But we did eat at Perkins that night. So I’m getting there.
A Stopper in action at Epcot
Looks reasonable enough
someone’s ready for mickey’s pretty frickin scary
If I didn’t fear orphaning my child, I’d have snapped a picture of his girlfriend too.
mickey’s pretty frickin scary
For those of you making the trek to Orlando for “Mickey’s Not So Scary Halloween Party,” do humanity a favor and leave your fairy wings at home.
Although I fully expected the children to be rocking the latest Halloween costumes, it’s pretty unsettling to see grown men wearing nothing but green felt loincloths as they wolf down churros and lose their kids. Morbidly obese women who appear to have brought back smallpox, dripping grease from a turkey leg on their Tinkerbell tutus? Check.
Despite witnessing enough weirdness to make me question procreation, I will admit that certain costumes were cleverly chosen and well executed. My personal favorite was Schneider from “One Day at a Time.” So impressed I was with his ensemble, I just had to complement him. His quizzical look and violent key jingling was followed by, “What costume?” and possibly a threat of violence that I didn’t really hear because by that time I was faking a seizure.
If you can get past the sea of glitter and inbreeding, Mickey’s Not So Scary is the best Fastpass you’ll ever have barring the one you’d get by storming into guest relations and threatening terrorist-like attacks because the Pygmy working at Space Mountain decided your daughter was one molecule below the 44-inch height requirement. (If you find yourself in this situation, I do not recommend saying: “And you’re about a foot shy of getting laid. Ever.”)
Because the $58 admission serves to eliminate probably 75% of Disney’s regular cretins, it’s not unusual to walk right on Space Mountain. Or to be able to ride Thunder Mountain so many times you actually start to ponder what color your vomit would be if you had a veggie burger swimming in French’s mustard and tangy Sweetarts for dinner.
Don’t expect too much from the Trick or Treating though. Basically you wait in an hourlong line behind a 56-year-old Snow White so that Disney employees standing at the finish can scoop up two MaryJanes from a garbage pail and throw them into your kid’s bag. Save yourself some time and olfactory assaults by picking up a bag of candy beforehand. That way you can forego those painful lines and instead shove a Tootsie Roll into your child’s mouth every time she complains that her costume is too itchy.
There is a Halloween Parade that features regular Disney characters (villains mostly) along with a few Haunted House/Halloween-themed appearances. It’s important to note that the fright factor of this parade or any other aspect of the event is nonexistent compared to the scariness of the people attending. The fact that they have the ability to reproduce is way more horrifying than any scare Disney could conjure up.
So if being terrified is not your thing, you may want to avoid eye contact with 80% of the park visitors (especially those from Indianapolis). Take a pass as well on the “Kimberly No Coordination Show.” It is there where you’ll risk witnessing my utter lack of gross motor skills when attempting to fold up a stroller to board the tram while also carrying a sleeping six year old. Lucky for me, said dirty-fingered child was sticky enough after running her hands across every handrail in the entire park (much to my horror and constant chiding) that she kind of just adhered to my shoulder while everyone in the transportation lot watched, trying to determine what the over/under was on me breaking my ass. A piece of advice: always take the over on that one.
i only wear white when it rains 