A Trip to Mouseville

So my wife and I decided to take our son to Disney World, not Land mind you, because that would assume an entire Disney continent existed out West.  As a result of this trip destination, I also quickly realized how little hand I have in my relationship.  In terms of hand, mine are about the size of that guy who chased after that other midget while seeking “The Ring”.  That movie actually reminded me of drunken trip to the grocery store where some fool dropped the bobble plastic thing, and we all tried to find it.  Funny?  Sure.  Enough to throw Spock ears, hairy feet, and a few warts on someone as a plot to a major motion picture?  Nah.  Anyway, you’ve got your Disney World and your Disney Land; World is in Florida, and Land is in California.  Luckily, either are fine settings for a re-enactment of National Lampoon’s Vacation - “Look kids, The Magic Kingdom, Epcot Center”.  So here are a few of my initial thoughts and some first impressions from “The “Happiest Place on Earth”:

• I’ve always heard the prices are more gouged than the one eye Willie did have.  It’s like you’re held hostage by your kid(s). You can’t refuse to buy the fucking stuffed Goofy doll with the kung-fu grip after your kid gives you the “meltdown or else” look.  Hell, spending $35 bucks on a strategically stitched together piece of pleather is well worth the alternative of screaming and almost kicking you in the sack repeatedly.  How is it that 4 years olds feet have GPS for your sack when they throw a fit anyway?  Seriously.  It’s like you push that button on your rear view mirror and it says, “Onsack Ready”; then your kid immediately has his legs set at a direct route to your jubilees.  Little feet – actual feet, not the band – have a special sack hurting ability that normal grown up human appendages don’t.  I think the smaller the appendage, the more damage it can do to your crapes – because they get into places you’d think were only subject to shrinkage, or testicular exams.  Little feet flailing at your sack is akin to that roto rooter with a camera that everyone must be plumbed with at some point in their life.  If there was ever a procedure where the ass flap of a gown being open was more important, I don’t know it.
• This morning I became painfully aware that staying at Walter Dizznay Villa will probably be more work than it is relaxing.  Seriously, the hallway could be a ride in and of itself.  It takes a bottle of water, a $20 balloon, mouse ears, and something with flashing neon to make the full trek...it’s kind of like what I imagine scaling Mt. Everest would be like.  There are bodies of those who have failed in their attempts to get to the park strewn all along the side of the monorail.  Vultures are circling overhead, and the animals on the other side of the window seem to be getting closer and closer…