I didn’t want to scoop out my brains and bash them on a rock, leaving my brainless body to wander the parks, forever staring blank-eyed and hungry at the exits, forever doomed to wander .
Admittedly, that isn’t perhaps as rousing an endorsement as you dudes have ever heard, but it is several magnitudes better than I had ever expected to hear myself talk about visiting Walt Disney World again.
See, I used to live in Florida with the young dudes and my wife, known to one and all as She Who Must Be Getting Back To Mouschwitz Again And Again And Again. . ., and that meant we had a residents’ pass every single year that we had kids. And, to make the pass pay for itself, we had to go to the House of
Pain Mouse at least three times a year.
By the end of our time in Florida, I couldn’t contemplate one more visit to the Magic Kingdom without also contemplating where I wanted my body found and who I was going to take with me.
I realize that I’m going against the grain here, but there were some parts of the entire Disney experience that just rubbed me the absolute wrong way. The corporate-enforced cheerfulness on display everywhere. The constant way that the parks pushed both Mickey Mouse and his iconic symbol. The relentless manner in which Disney World did everything possible to separate you from your money, often in the most blatant manner possible; the worst of which was making sure your little dudes and dudettes wanted the latest cool thing the park was pushing.
The concrete covering every single part of the Magic Kingdom would reflect and concentrate the relentless Florida summer sunshine, mix with the famous Central Florida humidity and make every second out of air conditioning a minor torment. Couple that with the long lines for any attraction or ride worth seeing and you’ve got a recipe for instant whining. And the young dudes were whining a bit as well.
To say I had a bit of an antipathy toward Mouschwitz would be an understatement. Still, I managed to stuff down my true feelings, plaster a reasonable facsimile of a smile onto my mug and give the little dudes a good time. Of course, my aneurysm grew several times each day, but it was worth it. I guess.
Then the youngest little dude, Hyper Lad, told us he didn’t even remember going. I’d have told him to count his blessings and then moved on to the next conversational gambit, but that doesn’t cut it around She Who Must Be Having A Secret Affair With Goofy.
And so we were off to Walt Disney World in Orlando, FL, where a number of surprises awaited me.
But more on that tomorrow.