Do you remember from the movie Caddy Shack when children and grown men and women ran and splashed, screaming, from the club pool because this brown -- thing -- was floating in it? And Bull Murray shows up in elbow-length rubber gloves, a spray-paint mask and seven-buckle arctic boots at the edge of the pool with a leaf skimmer to dredge out a Baby Ruth bar?
Well, what of Mr. and Mrs. Hogjowl who think that darling Petunia and Little Ferdinand will "hold it" while they're forced to sit in the tepid Mickey Pool for two hours while Daddy waddles off to Signals for a helmet full of beers and Momma Hogjowl is spreading towels across sixteen lounge chairs then goes to the spa to get her hair done?
Ferdie, with back turning red from UV, discovers it's fun to squat on the water fountain. And Tunie, grunting, strains a load through the baggy elastic of her worn-out bikini.
Ferdie smells the gift and promptly hurls into the pool; the wretched flotsam bobs its way to Mr. Jones' chest, who's splashing playfully with Junior in his swim diaper, which Disney expressly prohibits. Mr. Jones, in autonomic response, promptly projectile-vomits his burger, fries and beer with soft-serve ice cream chaser (topped with caramel and nuts, of course), spraying the simulated teak deck and two other parents.
What follows are screams, rounds of sympathetic emesis expanding towards the Goofy pool, increasing turbidity in Mickey's pool, kids slipping as they run, adding their own discharges, bawling, from the stench.
Out of nowhere, in a brilliant flash, a battallion of yellow-jumpsuited "cast members" with buckets, swabs, rags and spray sanitizer converge like baby spiders on a moth-strummed web. Someone in the bowels of the engine room, alerted by the howling klaxon on the pool-plumbing console, races to the flashing blue Pump and Purge panel and simultaneously slaps the flush lever and spins the emergency washdown pressure valve like a giant roulette wheel.
Surrounding the pool, the deck-apes in coveralls spin towards the hose racks and squeegy blades on broom handles. Like a choreographed Rockettes high-kick, in sequence they swing overhead and then drop before them their swabs, squeegies, and sweeper nozzles (pop-pop-pop splat pop-pop-pop swoosh pop-pop-pop), encircling the vile vituperation and sweep it in tiny breaking waves back into the pool. The waters are swirling down, down, down, faster and deeper, into Mickey's mouth; a vortex appears and creates a howling banshee scream not unlike a thousand teenagers sucking the last drops from a thousand Big Gulps.
A sudden furnace-like Santa Ana blast flaps the towels on six of Mrs. Hogjowl's abandoned but apparently reserved loungers; sippy cups are capsized; Mrs. Jones, still sleeping with her MP3 earbuds cranked up to 12, is awakened by the mists of the quelling disaster. From Mickey's mouth in the pool a ripping "schlisssssss----pfoomPP!" echoes off the red smokestacks like a stateroom toilet to the 18th power.
The air falls as still and hot as Parrot Cay before dessert is served. One cocktail napkin flutters drily to rest on Mrs. Jones' taut, coconut-oiled tummy. She gasps, and the 96 swabbies spin, gazing in horror at a piece of trash that's not in a can. None dare approach the bronzed lady. Slowly they back away, disappearing into cracks of doorways, under stairs, behind the towel boxes. One dives into a big yellow and red ventilator horn.
Only his shoe hints that anything has been the least awry. His shoe, and the napkin -- the napkin that none of the boatswain's mates dared grab from that shining, bikini'd, abdominal plank.
"Hey!" she shouts at the few stunned parents standing in awe around the pool, having witnessed what surely would top Richard Dreyfuss' narrative from Close Encounters of the Third Kind. "Why'd they drain the danged baby pool again? And where's Junior!?!"
And that's why I tell kids, "Get out of here" at the adult pool in Quiet Cove.
Some of us love it. 
