DISboards Travel Report
May 25, 2008
“…that’s AMAZING”
or,
“Musings from a Beguiled Admirer”
or,
“Anecdotes from an Over Stimulated Mind”
better yet,
“WARNING!” Musecdotes from a Fertile Mind!
Finally, bestest ever,
“WARNING…. That’s AMAZING!”
(I couldn’t decide which title to pick so I picked them all. This is where an accomplished Editor comes in handy.)
* * *
“WARNING... That’s AMAZING!”
by
FUNNYBONE
* * *
CENTRAL CASTING
MMH (*Marty Mouse House*) as Herself
The Ghost, formally known as DH. (MMH’s One and Only Squeeze)
My Bride (self explanatory)
Moi. That’s French for ‘Me, myself, and I’
Opening salutation from author:
“Howdy, ya’ll.”
That’s Western/Southern for ‘How are you?’ (Politeness Counts Everywhere)
* * *
Page 3.
Menu Board of Cosmic Deliciousness
Prologue
CHAPTER 1. The Ghost
CHAPTER 2. MMH
CHAPTER 3. My Bride
CHAPTER 4. Moi
CHAPTER 5. Tip NUMERO UNO
CHAPTER 6. The WEENIE KING
CHAPTER 7. Epic Epcot Emergency or “Rrrruuunnnnnnnnnnn… !”
CHAPTER 8. “I used to be a VIRGIN….”
CHAPTER 9. Murder Most Foul!
CHAPTER 10. Debacled at Animal Kingdom
Finale
Final Finale
The End, Period
Denouement (That’s French for “You mean it’s not over, yet?!!!”)
xxxv Obligatory Disclosure
xxxvi Appendix
* * *
Page 4.
Prologue
‘Copycatting is the sincerest form of flattery,’ they say. I say it’s just being plain lazy. But, emulating Disney and its Disney Speak, I’ve coined a new word: musings plus anecdotes equals Musecdotes. But I fear it’ll never catch on. Doesn’t look right, or sound right, either. “Musecdotes and ivy… .” See?
I was first alerted to DISboards from *Marty Mouse House*. She and I are Disney Affectionados. That’s Spanish for “We like it a lot.” Her husband (DH) might be a Disneyphile, but he’s going to AAA for it. Not the automobile AA, the other one. I don’t think he’ll ever be cured…
MMH, or DW as she calls herself on DISboards, has been to Walt Disney World at least 35 times more than me. Honest. Cross my heart.
DW (that’s code for Deranged Woman) said that I might want to check out DISboards and then see if I wanted to participate. If you read DISboards’ Threads and Posts (I don’t know what ‘string’ and ‘fencing’ has to do with any of this) you will quickly learn that this is a secret society with secret letter codes like DH, DS, CM (Cast Member), WDW, T of T, NiT-WiTT, KISS-ing, and so on. You have to buy the DISboards Code Book, for only three payments each of $19.95, to know what the heck they’re talking about. The CIA would be proud.
Apparently the color lime-green has some Holy Grail significance, too. Hoo-Boy!
At this point, the Truth in Advertising requires that I admit to you, freely, that the author of *Marty Mouse House* and I are related by blood and chromosomes. We have the same Mother and Father. I’m the Older Brother, and she is That Other Related Person Whom I’ll Never Understand (TORPWINU). She, also, is my Baby Sister (BS for short). Her blood is younger than mine but mine is redder with an extra, mildly crazy gene thrown in to the mix. Also, MMH is prettier than me. That’s OK because I’m a guy, but I do have my handsome Roman nose and my childhood cowlick. That’s all God gave me to count on!
We have another sibling between us, known as the Middle Child, or the Other Brother, but he is too busy making tons of cash to be bothered by the DISboards.
I did a little reconnoitering first (that’s French for “I’m looking for the nearest Walmart...”) because, well, I didn’t want to jump headfirst into the quicksand pit without knowing how deep the pit was. Or if there were any alligators in there.
With no Rhyme-nor-Reason, or any Scientific Method to slow me down, and with high expectations, I clicked on and eye-balled three choices: Blue River, jordanyosh, and Montana Disney Fan. Yes, they really exist. (And pssssssssssst, hold on to your hat, as near as I can tell, they don’t get PAID for writing their stuff. They do it for…, for FREE. They do it because…, well, they like it. What’s wrong with them?)
Page 5.
If they would grudgingly accept some free advice from a complete and totally biased stranger…
First, to Montana Disney Fan: Less Buzz Juice and More Natural High.
Second, to jordanyost: Find a woman who won’t say “No!” when the Disney
Pho-tog wants you both to kiss in front of EPCOT’s Great Golf Ball for the Photo Pass. And to that Girl, you’re at WALT DISNEY WORLD, for gosh sakes! At least give him a peck on his cheek! That kiss is not a pledge of betrothal! Not doing it is just plain wrong!
And lastly, to Blue River: “Oh, CANADA!” That’s all I could come up with. Sorry!
And, if I were all of you, do as I do with FREE advice: throw it right-away in the trash can, on top of your Junk Mail.
Truth in Telling, I received no Dead Presidential Tender or live chickens whatsoever to read their ‘posts’ (see Fencing again); but if these Folks perchance gain something significant, either Fame or Fortune, from me mentioning them and their addictive, quirky habits, and they feel the need to send me some trinket of gratitude, I’ve had my eye for some time on a Black Forest cuckoo clock, Item # HN86224 by Hones, titled “Man and Dog Chasing Off Bears”. It’s a Thing of Beauty and they can send it via FedEx to my house and not be ashamed to do it. I certainly won’t be ashamed to sign for it.
Anyway, I almost destroyed my retinas by demonically peering at my computer monitor’s cathode-ray tube, for what seemed like an eternity, reading their threads (see Jute).
Where Did They Find The Time To Write This Stuff?!! These folks (see Planter’s Cashews) have Compulsively Committed themselves to putting in some Heavy Lifting (akin to what a bra does for a woman over fifty) in the Writing and Editing Departments, just like those hermit-scribes from the Middle Ages in their cold castles, scratching on their vellums, living only on Funnel Cakes and Desani water. (Cue in the theme song from “Spaceship Earth”)
They’re taking legal pads, journals, lap tops, digital cameras, notebooks, hand-held GPS’s, tape recorders, Wi-Fi 24/7 Live Feed TV cameras, et.cet-errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrra, on their trips to WDW.
Good God, Man! When do they sleep?! You would think that they were on a quest to write the Great American Novel. Or solve the problem of World Peace. (Cue in the theme song from “It’s A Small World”.)
At least one of them gulps down gallons of various alcoholic beverages daily, beginning with a 3.2% Rolling Rock Breakfast Chaser and graduating to a 100 Proof Glen Livet late night aperitif. He’s very specific about what and when he drinks.
Page 6.
I think he moonlights as a stocker in an undisclosed ABC store. His liver must be larger than Space Mountain.
Though after reading all of the work he put into his ‘threads’ (see Twine), I don’t blame him! After all of that Obsessive Behavior, I’d need a drink, too (see Rusty Nail).
They all post some very nice pictures, though. (Extra points.)
Besides, I have a LIFE, with Wife and three grown Kids, and a real J-O-B!
Let me think…
Pause… (Thinking.)
Another pause… (Still thinking.)
Longer pause….. (Thinking some more.)
Much longer pause……… (Totally oblivious at this point. “What was the question?”)
“OK. I’ll do it!” Famous Last Words. Akin to kneeling on the scaffolding and handing your ax man a coin.
So, without any further ado, adieu, doo-doo, or Doo-be, doo-be, dooooooo! (Frank Sinatra), here goes nothing...
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Page 7.
CHAPTER 1
The Ghost
The four of us were standing in Fantasyland in front of Peter Pan’s Flight. DH (Dark Hubris) volunteered to get Fast Passes for the next ride. That same DH (Devilishly Harmless) had a system. When you’re at WDW, you’ve got have a system. Otherwise, Disney World will grind you into Mickey Mouse’s (MM, first hidden Mickey) pavement without a… system.
PART OF A SYSTEM: Get Fast Passes first, and then ride whatever.
DH (Disemboweled Heartache) suddenly slipped quickly through the crowds like smoke and disappeared. When the three of us walked off the PPF ride (the Price of Peppermint Frappacinos? No, Peter Pan’s Flight, silly), DH (Debauched Helium: see DH can mean anything, or nothing, or a bunch of nonsensical stuff in between, which is much more fun) was standing nonchalantly by the railing like a blond Cary Grant waiting for a train, Fast Passes in hand. It was right then and there that I knew I had to do him a favor: give him a James Bond kind of moniker.
It had to be: him. The essence of DH (Deviled Ham? Let it go.). Timeless. Clever. Intriguing. Hmmmmmmm. By Jove (whoever he was), I had it.
And his alias would be, drum roll please… The Ghost.
The Ghost nickname fit him like an Armani suit on Pierce Brosnan because of his uncanny ability to steal, like a B-2 bomber, only smaller, through the DW Masses, and because the letters DH are, well, boring and hard to remember what they actually stand for, if anything at all.
The other talent DH (Delete…), The Ghost had was his unnaturally accurate sense of driving direction in getting from hotel A, to park B; and then, after fireworks, in the pitch black darkness, get from park B back to the Caribbean Beach A (ABC backwards).
He would accomplish this Feat with one hand tied behind his back, and blindfolded in his Blizzard White Lexus, Luxury Utility, LX ($73,800 Starting List, but who’s counting?), 5.7 Liter, V8, 383 HP, with Teflon, Stain Guarded upholstery made out of soft, Egyptian blue-and-pale-yellow striped cotton, and gold threads woven into it, and a 24K Golden Ankh hanging from the rear mirror. He was that good.
No, he sped through the night in his Jaguar Convertible, XKR ($92,700 Basic List, Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell price) 4.2 Liter, V8, 420 HP, Ruby Red exterior with Silver Sparkly things in the paint, and Mother-of-Pearl Inlay in the interior’s everything!
Page 8.
Would you believe he chauffeured us in his Chrysler 1987 Classic Dodge Caravan, XE with Standard Peeling EPA Burgundy paint, property taxed at $15.25 out of Sympathy by the City; 2.6 Liter, Almost Big 4 Cylinder engine with hardly any Get-Up-And-Go horsepower left; 287,000-plus miles with a never-been-turned-back-odometer, Genuine
DuPont Naugahyde seats and the FREE Factory Installed mosquito fogger with Unlimited clouds of blue smoke belching out of the exhaust? (A run-on sentence if ever I’ve seen one!)
No? Right. That’s my car.
I think he really drives a car with an H Factorized in the SUV’s grille, and four other letters in the name. I really can’t remember. I don’t know cars. The beige passenger seats with lumbar supports were very comfortable, though.
Anyway, he was good. Very good.
I told him, “You’re good.”
And he truly was. Is. (Present Tense Please: He’s still very much vertical.)
* * *
Page 9.
CHAPTER 2
MMH
The four of us met up and were standing in front of the Pirates of the Caribbean.
I looked over at MMH and she was holding a large, empty plastic cup.
“What’s that for?” I asked her.
“What?”
“That,” I said and I pointed to the cup.
“It’s for, you-know,” she said shyly.
“No. I don’t know,” I said with my best, poker face.
“Just in case.”
“Just-in-case-what?”
“Just in case Shut-Up!” she said.
“The only time you’re going to need that cup is after you eat lunch at the Harbor House. Ride or no ride,” I said.
“Very funny, wise-guy. Ha-ha.”
Then I grabbed for the cup and tripped and we both went down.
“Let go of my CUP, YOU DOO-FUS!” MMH shouted, the blood vessels in her neck standing out.
Just then a young woman walking by whispered to her husband, “Don’t you think we ought to do something?”
“No,” he said. “Lunatics. Happens all the time. Besides, we’re at Disney World. Keep going.” And she trotted after him looking back at us rolling around on the concrete over her shoulder.
About that time, a hidden Radio Shack CCTV #5300 camera with Hubble sized telescopic lense swiveled around and trained it’s Mega Pixels on us.
In Security, a green (not actually green, just new, but you never know at WDW) CM (Chagrinned Marshall) said, “Roger. Roger, take a look at the monitor 7. Shouldn’t we send somebody up?”
Bored, Roger, with three stripes on his sleeve, swiveled around in his chair looking.
“Nah,” he said. “It’ll be over in a minute. Happens all the time. Focus the 53-Hundred on that good lookin’ blond standing over there with those Big…. MICKEY MOUSE EARS!” (Now you know that never happens at WDW. Yeah, sure!)
Laughing, we both stopped play-fighting at the same time and stood up, MMH checking her cup for damage.
The Ghost and My Bride were standing there shaking their heads, thinking “For-The-Love-Of-God, You Two!”, but they were smiling the whole time, too.
Gotta love us!
It could have happened that way…
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Page 10.
CHAPTER 3
“My Bride”
PART I
Inquiring Minds at the Magic Kingdom are always pulling me off Main Street and onto the sidewalk (if they can find an empty space, not crammed with Guests) to ask: “How did you meet your Bride?” And, I’m happy to tell them the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Well, most of it, anyway.
“It was a dark and stormy night…, “ I usually begin.
No, that’s not it at all.
It goes like this…
When I was single, I use to cash and deposit parts of my pay checks at a branch of a bank that’s changed its name three times, and ownership once, since then.
I had been cashing my checks at this particular branch for over a year while I lived by myself (that what ‘single’ means) in an apartment on the third floor on the Boulevard.
One day after going inside the bank, I noticed this one particular teller behind the teller line. She had long, dark hair, a warm smile, and something intangible about her eyes. I don’t know why I didn’t notice her before. But, I certainly did now.
I left the branch that day thinking about her.
The days expended themselves day-after-day-after-day…, as they sometimes do, and I continued to think about her.
Before I started my thinking about her, I’d go in the branch and stand in the shortest line to get my payroll check cashed and get out. That was BTAH, B.C. (Before Thinking About Her). Then, After (I started) Thinking About Her (ATAH, A.D.), I’d stand in her line, no matter what length it was. I’m romantic like that. There was something about that girl.
And, I couldn’t shake her eyes.
I also couldn’t tell you the minute, or the hour, or even the day, it happened, but one day I decided to ask her out. You know. To find out what she was like. Up close and personal, out from behind and away from that teller line.
She was intriguing.
I (there’s a whole lot of ‘I’s going on here) took a shower that day and it wasn’t even Saturday, polished my boots because I was wearing boots back then, black combat to be exact, put on clean underwear, jeans, and shirt. That much I’m sure I would have done.
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It’s called ‘man’s memory’, as opposed to ‘women’s memory’ which is absolute. Then I slipped on my one-and-only brown corduroy jacket. It was my living-by-myself, not-so-starving-but-not-making-it-either, Artist Look.
Standing in her line, I was a little nervous. I had no check to cash. No prop. I was going in without any net. The line was moving sooooooooo slooooooooow but my heart was pounding sooooooooo LOUD! My ears even felt hot.
“What can I do for you today?” she said.
You see, I was no Player. No Romeo. Just an Average, Interested, Mildly Scared Guy. I had no ‘line.’
“I don’t have a check to cash, but I was wondering if you would like to go out sometime? Maybe go to the Silver Moon for some Chinese?” (THUMP-thump, THUMP-thump, THUMP-thump… Stop it!)
I didn’t even know her name. But her eyes were green.
And this is what she said. She said, “I have to go to a wedding this weekend. Maybe some other time.” And she smiled.
“Sure. Some other time,” I said. I looked deep into her eyes trying to find a lie.
And, then, I turned around in slooooooo-mooooooooo-tion.
(THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP… Go ahead heart, it’s over now.)
Cue Big let-down. Breathe out…
* * *
Page 12.
“My Bride”
PART II
Of course you know (No-Dust-On-You) the story can’t end there. (Because she wouldn’t be My Bride, now would she? Unless, there was another Bride. That’s what’s known in Disney World as a ‘Teaser’.)
I fretted as to what to do. I kept on thinking about her.
I (here we go with the ‘I’s again) thought, well, it’s one of two things. Either, she really has a wedding to go to, or, she’s just being polite and it’s her way of telling me ‘No way, Jose.’ She was cute, though.
Calendar courtesy dictated that I start my Mental Debate Marathon on the Monday after her ‘wedding’ week-end. Over the next few weeks, I kicked around the “Should I ask her out again…?” I kicked it around, and around, and around some more…
I enlisted Ma Jong, a Ouija board, the All Knowing ‘Shake-It-And-Ask-It-A-Question-For-An-Answer’, Black Eight-Ball; dried Chicken Bones thrown on the kitchen floor, Lipton tea bags (because I had no loose tea leaves), Parcheesi, and Jeopardy as my spiritual guides to help find me an appropriate answer. Asking a priest was out of the question.
So, reversing the order, Alex Trebek asked: “For five-hundred dollars, did a certain scaredy cat have the brass ones to ask out the mysterious, cute teller a second time?” It was a terribly long answer to print on such a small Jeopardy game, question board.
I stammered, “What is: ‘Yes, I did.’”
Then Alex broke protocol and asked, “And, did she say ‘yes’ the second time?”
Yes she did, Alex.
Well, the rest is a Virginia Fairy Tale. We made it to the Silver Moon, many times, and eventually got married, which began our journey together, started Long Ago by A Prince (questionable allowances made) and a Princess.
We live and work in the Once-Capitol-of- the-Great-Unpleasantness, have Three Grown Kids (we, their fairy-taled, but not remotely royal parents, are now Almost Empty Nesters), Two Tabby Cats (one, an eighteen-and-a-half-pounder-no-matter-how-little-I-feed-him and the other, cute and mischievous like a George Clooney smile), live in a Four-Square, German Siding (BB), White House with yard; which is an integral part of our yearly Tradition of throwing both a Fourth-of-July and Halloween Extravaganza for our family, friends and neighbors (FFN’s).
I can hear you all now: “That’s so beautiful…. “
Go on. It’s OK. Let it all out. Sniff-sniff, wipe-wipe.
And, truth be told, it is.
* * *
Page 13.
CHAPTER 4
Moi
(that’s French for: Me)
“If you think I’m spilling the beans on myself, you’re crazy! I’m taking the Fifth!”
(It’s not polite to brag about one’s self, especially in the third-person.)
* * *
Page 14.
CHAPTER 5
Tip NUMERO UNO: DW’s Tug ‘0 War with Your Money
or
“Don’t Worry, Be Happy”
Money. Dineros. Clams. Saw Bucks. Just Plain Bucks. Wooden Nickels. Pieces if Eight. Anyway you cut it, like politicians and porn stars, everybody has their own, sacred opinion about it (and them) and how they (you) spend it. Saving it of course is out of the question.
Like a Carmel, California Rolls Royce dealer selling Silver Shadows, if you have to ask, you can’t afford one. So true.
It’s not that bad at Disney World.
You could have a massive heart attack tomorrow and keel over stiff as a Hobby Horse and all of your money would be sitting forlornly in your bank, or molding in your coffee can buried in the back yard, or getting flatter between your mattresses, all for nothing. Think about it.
Here’s what I do. And, again, as with any unsolicited advice, you’re not obligated to pay attention to it, much less follow it. Just like not paying attention to the frightening snores from your wife, while she sleeps sitting up on the couch as the wheel on Wheel of Fortune cranks around, slapping those pins so loud that the glass in your house’s windows furiously rattle. As you gently turn off the TV, she awakes suddenly with a snort and says indignantly, “I was watching that!”
I digress. Again. I’m sorry. (Not really)
OK now.
I’ll go up to one of the check-out counters at the Port Orleans, Riverside Cotton Mill food court, after picking up my Cuban sandwich, with Plantain instead of pickle, baked Rutabaga chips with brown sugar and cinnamon, and a Frosty Barley Pop; and the CM (Cash Maven) barks the total for me.
I do this: I turn my head as far over my left shoulder as I can, close my eyes, outstretch my hands toward the CM (Cranky Maitre d’) while holding my wallet open, which is stuffed silly with Andrew Jacksons. I let him, or her, as the case may be, take out as many of the AJ’s necessary to pay for me and My Bride’s lunch, letting them do the subtractive math for my change. Only then do I finally open my eyes.
About half way through my time at DW, I whisk my thumb across my opened wallet, again without closely looking, to gauge tentatively how much Legal Tender I have left. Just to be sure that I’m still solvent, you understand. I wouldn’t want to be unpleasantly surprised at impending bankruptcy. Especially in a Faraway Foreign Country, named
Page 15.
Florida, even if it is a Magical Place. After all, it’s no sin to be prudent. Remember the parable of the Ten Bridesmaids with Lamp Oil and Pastrami Sandwiches?
Why you ask, do I treat my money in such a cavalier fashion? I don’t. I’m not frittering it away on Lottery tickets. I’m investing it in… myself!
Aren’t you afraid some CM (Coin Mongrel) will take out an extra Jackson for themselves? “HA!” I say. “A thief working at Walt Disney World? Impossible… Besides, if you can’t trust an employee at Disney World, who can you trust?”
I’ve put up with that snarling, unappreciative BOSS all year long!
I’ve worked hard to help Inflate the National Debt by voting for my state’s favorite, federal politicians who in turn craft legislation to bring in tons of delicious Pork BBQ to for us, Pork BBQ that we don’t need, but do love to eat, and that same Pork BBQ the taxpayers of other states are forced to pay for, but can’t eat themselves, because our state’s politicians were quicker on the Pork BBQ draw than theirs. Too bad they’ll never taste how delicious it is! Especially with hot-sauce and Cole slaw.
Plus, I’ve struggled valiantly all year to keep the clothes dryer’s lint filter clean and the yard Dandelions exterminated.
I’ve worked hard! You’ve worked hard! We’ve ALL worked hard! Sing Polly, Wolly Doodle all the daaaaaaaaay! I’m exhausted.
We deserve a VACATION! Even if we have to pay for it ourselves, because a federal government agency, any agency, won’t give us a modest grant to study the effects of Disney Magic on our flagging libidos. That doesn’t sound quite right. What does a ‘flagging libido’ look like?
So, I say, pamper yourself. If you don’t, no one else will.
Why let a little thing like money come between you and the Poor House and one of the Happiest Time’s in Your Life, at the Happiest Place in the Known World. Besides, it’s (hold your breath) Only Money! The Treasury Department will print more.
And you say, “Only money? Oh, Sacrilege! Where’s my rope and stake and pile of firewood?”
But, remember grasshopper: the Spectral Magic Parade doesn’t follow the hearse! Splurge a little on yourself, and on your immediate Support Group. That Level 5 Coronary could happen to you at any moment!
* * *
Page 16.
CHAPTER 6
101 Questions for a Man Named Marty Sklar
or
“The WEENIE KING”
“Huh,” you think. “I thought the king of weenies was Oscar-Meyer? Besides, what’s a hot dog got to do with Walt Disney World? Plenty.
This would be Marty Sklar’s Commandment IV. No I’m not talking about Moses or Charleton Heston. You’d be close, though. He’s a very Distant Cousin of the two. Think BIGGER! Think Earthly Amusement, not Heavenly Salvation.
This tiny bratwurst of an idea has to do with the inescapable WOW! Factor at DW that hypnotizes your eyes and draws you in like a Polish Countess to a bowl of Borsch colored diamonds!
Rule Number Four: “Lead visitors from one area to another using visual magnets (see Weenie) and give them a reward (another Weenie) for making the journey.” Marty must have really liked hot dogs!
It is one of the Top Ten Platitudes mid-wifed by MS (Mister Sorcerer).
It’s the “Look at the size of that thing!” as you stand in front of Spaceship Earth. It’s the “How did they do that!” as you fly Soarin’. It’s the “Gee Whiz, I Can’t Believe It!” that fills your head as you are mesmerized by the “Illuminations” fireworks-slash-soundtrack and you involuntarily blow that little whistle through your lips.
“…that’s Amazing!” you think, as you stumble dumbfounded, your heart pounding, stepping off Mission Space, or Dinosaur, or Test Track, or …... That’s all Marty and his Peeps. (I included them because I’ll bet they’re involved, too).
I call him Marty but I’ve never had the privilege of meeting him, much less any of his Little Chickens. Maybe one day….
Marty is the head of Imagineering. You know the combination of the words ‘imagination’ and ‘engineering’.
The things I’d like to ask him. Like, tell me about Walt. You know, Mr. Disney. What was he really like? How do you guys go about dreaming up this stuff? Do you vaporize chemical substances or snort hallucinogenic mushrooms, while sitting in a darkened conference room with black lights, burning incense, with Ravi Shankar music playing in the background? Have nearly toxic levels of Mother Nature’s Dopamined-Creative-Juices-at-Peep-Birth played a significant part in this wonderful craziness?
What’s the process like from idea, to drawing board, to pouring concrete around steel, to us finally getting a Fast Pass for the new ride? How long does the process take from beginning to end? What’s the criteria for making a project? I’ll bet money is somehow involved. It always is.
Page 17.
Who gives the ‘Go’, the ‘Green Light’, the ‘Let’s Rock ‘n Roll’, the ‘Pull the Trigger’ on an idea? Or do you use Tarot cards? Or a Ouija board? Darts?
Does the CM (Charming Maniac) with the biggest loafers and heaviest gold neck chains make the Final Decision? What does a Producer produce? Do you like Boxers or Briefs? Just kidding. I wanted to see if you DIS-Boarders were paying attention. (He
probably goes Commando.) Do you really like Spinach Quiche? Why? And what’s a Sklar, anyway?
Inquiring Minds want to know stuff. And Marty seems to be the Go-To-Guy. It would be fascinating to hear him reminisce.
* * *
Page 18
CHAPTER 7
Epic EPCOT Emergency
or
“A Not So Funny Thing Happened On the Way to Illuminations”
PART I
On September 19th of 2007, during a late, Thursday afternoon, my Bride and I, and Marty Mouse House and The Ghost were at EPCOT (Every Person Comes Out Tired).
Her DH (Distinguished Hedonist), now appropriately nicknamed The Ghost, “for The Simple Fact”, as my Jesuit friend Father Henry Chicken-Legs, S.J., OOJD says (that’s Society of Jesus’, Order of the Old Jesuit Dudes), for the simple fact that I don’t like referring to DH as DH because the initials are so… vague, and still boring.
In the fading light, we watched a line of purple thunderheads inch forward from the east towards us, on our left, as we stood at the northern rail on the Showcase Plaza facing south, peering across the World Showcase Lagoon.
The Ghost looked at me and then to my Bride and then to the threatening glacier sized wall of black-and-blue advancing clouds and asked expectantly, “Do you want to stay for the fireworks?”
It was 8:30 pm, there-a-bouts.
“We’re here, now,” I said. “Let’s chance it.” Famous Last Words.
The wind picked up as soon as I said ‘it.’
We were standing next to an empty yellow tent erected for the upcoming Food and Wine Festival. The tent’s flaps rustled uncertainly. My Bride and I brought no raincoats.
“Ladies and Gentleman. Boys and Girls of all ages….,” crackled those black, vertical speakers on poles. No. Wait a minute. That’s the Ringling Brothers Barnum & Bailey Circus’s announcement. Please excuse.
“Ladies and Gentlemen. In just 30 minutes, Walt Disney World presents: ILLUMINATIONS…!” That’s better.
MMH pulled out two tiny packages, each about the size of a piece of Chiclets gum, and announced, “Here are raincoats for the both of you. Got ‘em at the Dollar Store for a quarter each!” She was beaming!
It was like unfolding a Glad Wrap Puzzle from Hell. Only Yellow. If those Chinese merchants could have seen us trying to unravel their two, inscrutable, transistorized, thin-as-an-onion-skin raincoats, they would have laughed themselves into a coma.
My Bride and I foolishly didn’t put them on.
Page 19.
The wind picked up in earnest and the mountains of violent clouds loomed closer. But still no rain. We could see lightning flash inside the massive front like little yellow strobes inside a semi-transparent, malignant body.
“Ladies and Gentlemen…,” crooned that taped, sweet voice, unaware of our impending doom. (Note foreshadowing here.)
“In just 15 minutes Walt Disney World will present “ILLUMINATIONS!”. Please hold on to any small children, tiny pets, wallets, and your daffy uncle Elmer with his walker, for we will turn down all lighting….” so that when I suddenly have to go relieve my Swollen-to-Bursting-Bladder because I should have gone before the show, but what? lose my place in the crushed third row from the front, no way, even though when I finally MUST go I most certainly will trip in the pitch black darkness and crack my face open on the sidewalk “….for your enjoyment of the spectacular presentation of ILLUMINATIONS! Thank-you.” I fell in love with that girl and her Voice right then and there.
The Ghost had just come back from McDonalds with vanilla ice cream cones and two large fries. McDonald’s at Disney World! Sneaky, WDW is!
At 8:51 pm large rain drops began plopping down on us.
My Bride and I struggled to get our raincoats on. It was like playing Twister, by yourself, with a piece of human-sized Glad Wrap. You know, overlapping Glad wrap layers, sticking together like they were statically Crazy Glued.
Frustrated, I shoved my hand and flailing arm through that Hoody thing where my head was suppose to go, instead of into and through my sleeve; and then, with my other hand, punched a hole through the back of my coat instead of finding my other sleeve. My Bride was putting her Glad Coat on backwards, and upside down. We were so cute together.
“DAG-NABIT! “ I yelled. No I didn’t. I said something entirely, unrepeatably else. I’ll leave that up to your excellent imagination.
The tent next to us began to madly flap and billow in the wind and now driving, warm rain. It looked like a demonic yellow monster from the Deep, Scary Sea, expanding and contracting, its fringe writhing like some wet sea creature’s mane.
And then, at 8:55 pm, all of the furies of the Nether World (think HELL) broke loose on us! (I remember the exact time because Mickey’s little hand was almost on the nine, and his big hand was on the … oh, never mind.)
I had this vivid image of a lightning bolt crashing into my body: Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzttt-WHAM!-BANG!-CRASH!-BOOM! (Not be confused with WHAM-Bam-Thank-you-Ma’am.) Cue deafening rumbling sound to fade-out: BAROOOOOOM!-CRASH!-
Page 20.
BOOM!-BOOM!-BA-Da-BOOM!, Boom, boom, boom-boom. (Not be confused with Dean Martin singing “That’s Amore”.)
My imagination continued to work overtime. Suddenly, that same Bolt of Almighty lightNinG (BANG for short) like a Berzerko X-ray machine, would light up my skeleton into a lime-glowing-green-Halloween-Thing-of-Beauty, and a nano-second later, set me ablaze into the Human Torch, soon-to-be the Crispy Critter.
Finally, after the smoke and smell, like that of a badly burnt pepperoni pizza, wafted away, what would be left of me would fall into a tiny heap of hot Carbon Dust, and The Deluge would quickly wash my careless, and now sopping wet cinders across the concrete walkway and into the Showcase Lagoon. Serves me right for foolishly thumbing my nose at Mother Nature.
But at WDW, where they control everything, nobody ever get’s hurt! Right? Riiiiiiight.
That’s what should have happened.
* * *
Page 21.
Epic EPCOT Emergency
PART II
Our Crew and other Strangers ducked (no pun intended) inside the tent and huddled together like it was our Last Day on Earth!
I clung onto the slapping tent flaps trying to look out. It was darker in that tent than if you were speeding on the track inside Space Mountain, with your hands over your closed eyes and all of the lights turned off!
Without warning, Guests started stampeding in a panic for the EPCOT Exits, which were… Far, Far Away!
I don’t know why they did it. It didn’t make any sense to me. Where were they running to? The lightning and rain were everywhere! And the Guests weren’t even seeking shelter inside the buildings.
They thought the Exits would save them!
The lightening BA-WOOOMED!!! and the rain was flying down in a blinding torrent.
“Where’s the announcement from DW to seek cover?” I hollered at The Ghost.
“They don’t do that,” he yelled back over the wind and rain.
“SHOOT-I-RECKON!!!” I said, loosely translated. (I’ve got the writing “V” chip turned on for the protection of younger eyes.)
By now we were soaking wet clear through to our spleens. Our Glad Coats stuck to us like chartreuse fly paper. We looked Beyond Ridiculous. Waaaaaaaaaay Beee-yond!
And precisely at the Stroke of NINE PM, my Imaginary Love Interest cooed out of the large speaker next to us in her best honey voice for the last time:
”Ladies and Gentlemen. Walt Disney World Proudly Presents: ILLUMINATIONS…!” Think words spoken through the water of a ten foot deep swimming pool, with ferocious bubbles.
Star shells tried to go up through the storm then suddenly veered off sideways. Firework-breaks were smothered under the wet of the unscheduled, mini-Hurricane. Aerial explosions broke like pipsqueak sized, water-logged pop, pop, pop’s, instead of their usual BANG!-BANG!-BANGS! The background music echoed forlornly: “Blub, Blub, blub-blub, blub…,” with violins.
So, now I’m thinking there’s 20,000 pounds of liquid propane fastened beneath the Showcase’s Lagoon barge begging to blow it, and us, to Smithereens! There’s 50,000, Heart Stopping Volts of Frying Electricity generated by each Lightning Strike, randomly CRASHING! around EPCOT’s Guests with a BOOOOOM!, surely ZAPPING! anything in a Your-Guess-Is-As-Good-As-Mine spot. Lucky Me, one of those spots will probably be mine!
Page 22.
And you can bet one of those BOLTS! was going for the barge. Feel the Heat!
There was the whole of Niagara Falls cascading down on us from above. There were those Pyrotechnical 15 and 30 Pound Wonder Shells, times 650 of them! all stuffed to the gills (appropriate metaphor, don’t you think?) with that Unstable Black Gunpowder packed in their Final Charges, zooming off in all directions, exploding Who-Knows-Where in this weather madness.
The Wind was so fierce that Spaceship Earth wobbled as if it were going to roll off its tee! Think: a combined recipe of natural and man-made cataclysms to make an “End of the World Showcase” Disaster Movie!
And so, after staring at each other with Mara Liasson eyes, we finally decided on a plan, which was: “Get Out Alive, NOW!”
We started running!
Long live the yellow tent!
The Ghost in his flight was a Sight to Behold. The rest of us scrambled the best we could.
I still didn’t understand. Where was the shrill of the air raid horns? Where were the Flashing Red Danger signs atop the World Showcase buildings? Where was the ‘Seek Shelter from Impending Doom’ spewing emphatically from the speakers by the lips of my Golden Tongued Siren? Why wasn’t Disney Management doing something? Probably hiding under their desks the whole time. No flies on them.
EPCOT could have at least broadcast: “This is not a Feat of Magic from our Imagineers! Animatronics played no part in this maelstrom! These are not harmless thrills and spectacular illusions concocted by us to simulate a natural disaster! This is the Real Thing! Take Cover! We’re not responsible for Injury, Death, or Loss of Bodily Functions due to any Acts of God!” The latter disclaimer written by the law offices of Shapiro, Shapiro, and Shapiro, LLC (Lawfully aLlowed to Collect), Esq (means nothing, just makes them look sophisticated and they can charge more just for having it on their letter head).
I had to stop three times on the causeway to the Exit styles to empty the water from my tennis shoes. The second emptying time, I swear, along with the water, I dumped Dorey out of one of my shoes and she flopped With Attitude down the concrete causeway, back to the Showcase Lagoon. I could have been mistaken, though, because I was Running-for-My-Life at the time, filled from scalp-to-flat-feet with TERROR!
The fountains on our right, just before Innovations, were gaily spraying their blue and green flood-lighted water high up into the air, oblivious to the panic stricken Guests madly sloshing thru the rain. That’s what’s known as: CLASSIC IRONY.
Page 23.
Of course, you guessed it. Just as we passed the Leave A Legacy’s Tombstones, the Mayhem suddenly quit.
Mother Nature has a warped sense of humor.
Pause. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock…
You will be relieved to know that all of the members of our Peep Squad came out unscathed, with the exception of everyone having some extreme, water induced skin wrinkling, stinky feet, and the shedding of at least ten pounds of body fat, unwanted anyway, all according to the natural laws of Extreme Fear and Exercise.
Life Lesson Learned.
(I may have embellished a little in the telling of this true story.)
* * *
Page 24.
CHAPTER 8
“I used to be a VIRGIN….
…until I went to Port Orleans, Riverside.”
I will never forget my very first time. I can still remember it as if it happened yesterday. I was excited. And nervous. A little bit scared. Probably clumsy, too. But, boy, what an experience! And, I first had this once-in-a-lifetime experience in a suite at Port Orleans, Riverside! Sigh…….
The earth turned under me! The stars spun in the Heavens! Celestial Angels sang: “HALLLLLLLLLLL-eee-luuuuuuu-jaaah..…!“ (the ‘j’ is silent)
Sigh……. again.
“CUT!”
It’s not what you think. And I know what you’re thinking. You’d be wrong. Again.
I’m talking about discovering the beauty of the sleek, white, porcelain Crane for the very, first time.
Yup, that’s right. I’m talking about experiencing the use of a…. TOILET!
Not just any ol’ toilet, mind you. But a Model #150-403, PF/2 Energizer Series, Serial #404488, 1.6 GPF (Great Palpitations Forever) toilet.
You know. Water Closet. Outhouse. Johnnie’s John. An HDD. (Honey Dipper’s Delight) My heart races and I get breathless just thinking about it. I feel the same way about My Bride’s Lasagna and her Aggression Cookies!
Like I said, it’s not just any old toy-let. It’s a Model #150-403! It’s a guar-AWN-teed 5,000 air-assisted, water saving, Fantastic Flushes with its PSI Power that would put a Nimitz class, aircraft carrier’s catapult launch-pistons to shame.
Let’s put it this way: If, after Doing Your Business (DYB), and you pushed the chrome Flush Button before realizing you had accidentally dropped your cell phone in the bowl and you stupidly reached in the swirling vortex to grab the disappearing phone, the Great Power of the Almighty Air Assist combined with the Sucking water would grab your hand and forearm trying to flush it also down the Hole. And, in a state of FEAR, you would instantly dislocate your arm at your shoulder as you tried to keep it from disappearing down the Gaping Maws of that Demonic Beast! I exaggerate you not!
Upon explaining What Happened, the doctor and nurses at the Emergency Room would laugh openly at you for being so dumb. Then they would give you their most solemn ‘You should have known better’ looks, shaking their heads slowly with a loud chorus of TSK-TSK-TSKing.
Page 25.
Back to reality…
“You are the only nut I know who gets his jollies by looking into the tank of a toilet at Disney World,” my Bride has said. She’d be right, too. I’m not remotely ashamed to admit it.
Secretly, I think DW Guests (see MEN) at any of their resorts who are curious enough to dare to take a peek into the Wonderous Inner Sanctum of the Crane tank, will shake and shiver when they discover the Coolness of this Modern Marvel.
Of course, Truth Be Told, I received no compensation whatsoever from the fine folks at the Crane Fanny Works for mentioning their Privy Potties (PP).
But, if their Corporate Elite were to feel compelled to send me a token of their gratitude, I have had my eye on an up and coming Time Share at the Wondrous
Contemporary Resort, a stone’s throw from the Magic Kingdom, with its cavern sized kitchen accompanied by a Balkan Granite topped cooking island; two glorious Bamboo floored bedrooms, and their bathrooms, with live-in Masseuse and Gardener (puzzling enough because there will be no gardens in the bedrooms or the bathrooms); Living Area To Die For, with balcony; and six, Lifetime Park Hopper Passes with Unlimited, Absolute-Head-of-the-Line Fast Passes, along with DW’s Eternal Dining Plan, tips included.
I would gladly sign for these gratuities from the FedEx driver without the slightest twinge of guilt or hesitation.
* * *
Page 26.
CHAPTER 9
“Murder Most Foul!”
I can seriously help ABC in the TV ratings wars, even though they haven’t asked for it. That’s the kind of guy I am.
Even though I’m Lost most of the time, Desperate Housewives want to see me Dancing with the Stars while I pretend to be The Bachelor interested in joining a Women’s Murder Club, Wife Swap-ping Supernannys that aren’t mine, then running my dog named Ugly Betty to Grey’s Anatomy for a hemorrhoid-ectomy, ambush/filmed by America’s Funniest Home Videos, Jeopardizing her (Ugly Betty, silly) Wheel of Fortune. Whew. Got that?
Think about it. WDW has the perfect set-up for a new, low production cost, high ratings series surprisingly titled: “Anything with the word MURDER in it!” (Cue loud, excitingly repetitious music with a downbeat: DUN-DUN, Dun, dnnnnnnunnnnnnnnnn! Needs more n’s.)
Here are some titles and ideas:
“Test Track: Crash Course to Murder”
“The Big Thunder Mountain Murder Train”
“Dinosaur: The Archeologist Became a Snack Wrap”
“Everest: Expedition to Murder”
“Jungle Cruise to Murder” or “Cruise to Murder Jungle” (A clever play on words!)
“The Mission to Space Murders” (A twofer.)
“The Splash Mountain Murders” (Another twofer.)
“It’s A Small Murderous World”
“The EPCOT Hide ‘n Seek Murders” (BONUS: Included is a viewer search on TV for half-hidden clues throughout the Nation’s Pavilions, as the show progresses, to the murderer’s identity with prizes awarded to the winning viewers.)
And, finally, my all time favorite: “The Soarin’ Murder Mystery”, or the SMM as the Producers will fashionably want to call it.
Picture this: Soon after the camera zooms in on a hack-sawed wing strut getting ready to snap like a dried wish-bone, the glider collapses, and our victim plummets into a snow covered mountain. SPLAT! Big surprise.
I could go on forever. At least 200 episodes worth.
You get my drift. Smells like EMMY! to me.
Page 27.
In case the Big Wigs at ABC are teasingly interested in my copyrighted ideas to give them a Ratings BONANZA (not to be confused with Lorne Green), I would relinquish all rights for a Vespa Motor Scooter, NOT to be compared with a tacky ol’Moped, Red Of Course, Model #MC-SL12, 150cc, 4 stroke (1 stroke would probably do me in) with
Factory Included Italian Chick Magnet and Rich Italian leather upholstery. My Bride might object to the ICM. (Not to be confused with the ICBM: Italian Chick “Buxom”
Magnet)
And when the FedEx man putt-putts up to my front door, with beautiful Italian Chicks hanging all over him, I’ll sign for my Vespa with all of the pious Gratzi’s I can muster. Of course, in deference to My Bride, and our grown-up children, I’ll obediently shoo away the legions of gorgeous Italian Babes. (Sniff-sniff.)
Let’s see. Murder. Even pretend, TV murder filmed at Walt Disney World…
Not going to happen.
Ever!
* * *
Page 28.
CHAPTER 10
Debacled at Animal Kingdom
or
“A Chit Chat with Joey Earring”
Here in the Use-To-Be Confederate Capitol of the Old South (see Dixie Landings), we have the Travel Channel, #46 to be exact, on Comcast cable.
No gifts were given to me by the fine folks at Comcast and, according to the Truth in Advertising, I own only 19 shares of their stock, by quirky happenstance not of my doing, recently paying out an embarrassing dividend of a $1.19.
However, if the Comcast Board were to receive More Fame and More Fortune after this plug, and they felt duty bound to reward me with a small trinket of their gratitude, I must confess I’ve had my eye on a 52” Sharp Aquos 1080p LCD HDTV with built- in DVD player, 600 watt Dolby ‘Rock-Your-World’ Surround Sound speakers, and add-on Fry Baby and Black and Decker Theater style popcorn popper. Out of politeness, I would sign for it from the FedEx woman with all of the humility and grace of that of a hungry Czech standing over a roaster pan stuffed with hot Halupkis.
But, I digress. I’ll try not to let it happen again. (But, there’s no guarantee.)
One night, the Travel Channel was featuring ‘All Things at Walt Disney World’. And on a portion of the two hour show, a CM (Charismatic Meister) was identified as the Imagineer Most Responsible for Imagineering Animal Kingdom. He wore a long, dangly earring on his left ear, beads, feather, and all. I can’t even begin to crack that code. His name was Joey-the-Earring.
Joey seemed like a nice enough guy, but very animated. Hmmmmmm. Wait a minute. Brain Clue. Maybe he wasn’t a guy at all but an animatronic posing as an Imagineer. That would explain a lot of things.
Anyway, having visited Animal Kingdom (AK for Always Krazy) a number of times, 137 to be exact, but who’s counting, I would like to have an earnest chit-chat with Joey-the-Earring.
The first thing I would ask him is this: “Good Gawd Man! What were you thinking when you designed the width of the streets?” Or as I lovingly like to call them: The Gauntlets of Death. “Were you insanely trying to save money on asphalt?”
Joey-the-Ear obviously ignored Marty Sklar’s Commandment Number III: Thou Shalt Organize the Flow of People (and Ideas).
Page 29.
Instead, Joey-the-Ermine invented a new Commandment: XVII, Thou Shalt Cram as many People into an Unforgiving Space as You Can! And, and again, Plus it with hundreds of large strollers with screaming kids in 100 degree weather, tossing in a touch of lightning and heavy rain every now and then; and for good measure, throw in their wild-eyed, desperate and sweat soaked Mothers and Fathers!
All of this dove tails nicely with what I call the “Moving Wall of China Phenomenon”. The MWCP, as I like to refreshingly call it, is a phenomenon whereby you have four people, usually family members, weighing approximately 250 pounds a piece, walking side-by-side, in lock-step, half-a-Ton-Style, down one of Joey’s claustrophobically narrow streets, moving at the pace of the snow melting off the mountain slopes at Expedition Everest. (Cue Total-Unbelieving-Look! with “Hey, that snow’s painted on!”)
Now, you get it.
Let’s do the math. Don’t worry, it’s Simple math.
A 15 foot wide street, minus 12 feet for the Half Ton Moving Wall, and minus another 6.5 feet for the strategically placed Animal Kingdom’s Pretzel cart with Minute Maid Fruit Punch and other selections, coupled with its bored CM (Cherokee Madman), leaves you a Negative 3.5 feet in which to get by! Negative, as in The Natural Laws of Physics are Absolute: You Can’t Make It! Even in ‘Honey, I Shrunk Myself’ mode. No how, no way! No time this year, even! Good Luck, Charlie!
The Ghost could make it through. He’s that good.
The second Great Idea (see Mistake) Joey-the-Enforcer made was the addition of those handy baby strollers. It was a stroke of genius: large, tank-like baby strollers plus heart-brakingly narrow streets. See where I’m going?
Fly-on-the-wall moment: Animal Kingdom Park Management board meeting.
Setting: conference room with huge, round table. AK’s (Always Krowded) Park Director asks a circle of haggard faces, “What can we further do to enhance our Park’s experience for our Guests?”
Joey-the-Enforcer ominously clears his throat. Other CM (Curiously Maligned) executives get nervous.
“We could bolt two of our strollers’ together,” he said, “side-by-side, for our Guests who have unwittingly made the mistake of having two small kids at roughly the same time.” Tepid Applause. The committee members have each been to Animal Kingdom exactly one time, 10 years ago, and they remember, involuntarily rubbing their ankles.
And, Joey-the-Rhododendron falsely sensing a Good Thing, goes Beyond his Wildest Inhibitions.
Page 30.
He fatally blurts out, “We could even bolt three strollers together!” At which point Joey-The-Dead-Man gets bombarded with hundreds of balled-up agenda papers (stroller complaints included), and one, heavy glass ash tray.
The Fine Folks at DW helpfully suggest you remember to bring your sunscreen, hats, water bottles, and rain coats to have a Magical Time while visiting their Parks.
They conveniently left out ‘shin guards’, which you will need to wear backwards on your legs at AK (Ankles getting Kracked) from the swarms of strollers that will be driven into your Achilles tendons.
After it happens, and it will happen, countless times, the jarring sharp pain in the back of your ankles will be excruciating as you turn around with that accusing look of “What the HECK...?!!!” (V-chip still on…) in your eyes.
The Mother, or MONSTER!!!, if you prefer, who slammed into your heels, suddenly looks up into the sky with that pretentious look of “I wonder if it is going to rain today?” Her Precious Baby stares at you with those big, innocent baby-eyes that seem to say “I’m sooooo sorry, man.” You can forget about an apology from the M-O-M. Isn’t going to happen.
Another Painful Phenomenon is what I lovingly like to call: AK’s Domino Collision (that’s AK-DC, not to be confused with AC-DC, which my lawyers will not let me go into here).
This is where hundreds of people are moving in one direction at-a-clip, mostly all Lost, and someone, usually a member of the ‘Great, Faster-Now, Moving Wall’ (which really isn’t that fast), suddenly stops, and bends over (another Phenomenon you don’t want to witness, especially if standing directly Behind that person) to tie his, or her, shoe. It’s like a human Train Wreck. People start plowing into each other, Accordion Style. This is where your portable Air Bag comes in handy. It’s your only defense.
In parting, to Joey-The-Earring I say, “Nice try, bud. But you Goofy-ed, Big Time. (Disney humor. Ha-ha.) Better luck next time.”
“Oh yeah, your earring doesn’t match your shirt.”
* * *
Continued on following quote...
May 25, 2008
“…that’s AMAZING”
or,
“Musings from a Beguiled Admirer”
or,
“Anecdotes from an Over Stimulated Mind”
better yet,
“WARNING!” Musecdotes from a Fertile Mind!
Finally, bestest ever,
“WARNING…. That’s AMAZING!”
(I couldn’t decide which title to pick so I picked them all. This is where an accomplished Editor comes in handy.)
* * *
“WARNING... That’s AMAZING!”
by
FUNNYBONE
* * *
CENTRAL CASTING
MMH (*Marty Mouse House*) as Herself
The Ghost, formally known as DH. (MMH’s One and Only Squeeze)
My Bride (self explanatory)
Moi. That’s French for ‘Me, myself, and I’
Opening salutation from author:
“Howdy, ya’ll.”
That’s Western/Southern for ‘How are you?’ (Politeness Counts Everywhere)
* * *
Page 3.
Menu Board of Cosmic Deliciousness
Prologue
CHAPTER 1. The Ghost
CHAPTER 2. MMH
CHAPTER 3. My Bride
CHAPTER 4. Moi
CHAPTER 5. Tip NUMERO UNO
CHAPTER 6. The WEENIE KING
CHAPTER 7. Epic Epcot Emergency or “Rrrruuunnnnnnnnnnn… !”
CHAPTER 8. “I used to be a VIRGIN….”
CHAPTER 9. Murder Most Foul!
CHAPTER 10. Debacled at Animal Kingdom
Finale
Final Finale
The End, Period
Denouement (That’s French for “You mean it’s not over, yet?!!!”)
xxxv Obligatory Disclosure
xxxvi Appendix
* * *
Page 4.
Prologue
‘Copycatting is the sincerest form of flattery,’ they say. I say it’s just being plain lazy. But, emulating Disney and its Disney Speak, I’ve coined a new word: musings plus anecdotes equals Musecdotes. But I fear it’ll never catch on. Doesn’t look right, or sound right, either. “Musecdotes and ivy… .” See?
I was first alerted to DISboards from *Marty Mouse House*. She and I are Disney Affectionados. That’s Spanish for “We like it a lot.” Her husband (DH) might be a Disneyphile, but he’s going to AAA for it. Not the automobile AA, the other one. I don’t think he’ll ever be cured…
MMH, or DW as she calls herself on DISboards, has been to Walt Disney World at least 35 times more than me. Honest. Cross my heart.
DW (that’s code for Deranged Woman) said that I might want to check out DISboards and then see if I wanted to participate. If you read DISboards’ Threads and Posts (I don’t know what ‘string’ and ‘fencing’ has to do with any of this) you will quickly learn that this is a secret society with secret letter codes like DH, DS, CM (Cast Member), WDW, T of T, NiT-WiTT, KISS-ing, and so on. You have to buy the DISboards Code Book, for only three payments each of $19.95, to know what the heck they’re talking about. The CIA would be proud.
Apparently the color lime-green has some Holy Grail significance, too. Hoo-Boy!
At this point, the Truth in Advertising requires that I admit to you, freely, that the author of *Marty Mouse House* and I are related by blood and chromosomes. We have the same Mother and Father. I’m the Older Brother, and she is That Other Related Person Whom I’ll Never Understand (TORPWINU). She, also, is my Baby Sister (BS for short). Her blood is younger than mine but mine is redder with an extra, mildly crazy gene thrown in to the mix. Also, MMH is prettier than me. That’s OK because I’m a guy, but I do have my handsome Roman nose and my childhood cowlick. That’s all God gave me to count on!
We have another sibling between us, known as the Middle Child, or the Other Brother, but he is too busy making tons of cash to be bothered by the DISboards.
I did a little reconnoitering first (that’s French for “I’m looking for the nearest Walmart...”) because, well, I didn’t want to jump headfirst into the quicksand pit without knowing how deep the pit was. Or if there were any alligators in there.
With no Rhyme-nor-Reason, or any Scientific Method to slow me down, and with high expectations, I clicked on and eye-balled three choices: Blue River, jordanyosh, and Montana Disney Fan. Yes, they really exist. (And pssssssssssst, hold on to your hat, as near as I can tell, they don’t get PAID for writing their stuff. They do it for…, for FREE. They do it because…, well, they like it. What’s wrong with them?)
Page 5.
If they would grudgingly accept some free advice from a complete and totally biased stranger…
First, to Montana Disney Fan: Less Buzz Juice and More Natural High.
Second, to jordanyost: Find a woman who won’t say “No!” when the Disney
Pho-tog wants you both to kiss in front of EPCOT’s Great Golf Ball for the Photo Pass. And to that Girl, you’re at WALT DISNEY WORLD, for gosh sakes! At least give him a peck on his cheek! That kiss is not a pledge of betrothal! Not doing it is just plain wrong!
And lastly, to Blue River: “Oh, CANADA!” That’s all I could come up with. Sorry!
And, if I were all of you, do as I do with FREE advice: throw it right-away in the trash can, on top of your Junk Mail.
Truth in Telling, I received no Dead Presidential Tender or live chickens whatsoever to read their ‘posts’ (see Fencing again); but if these Folks perchance gain something significant, either Fame or Fortune, from me mentioning them and their addictive, quirky habits, and they feel the need to send me some trinket of gratitude, I’ve had my eye for some time on a Black Forest cuckoo clock, Item # HN86224 by Hones, titled “Man and Dog Chasing Off Bears”. It’s a Thing of Beauty and they can send it via FedEx to my house and not be ashamed to do it. I certainly won’t be ashamed to sign for it.
Anyway, I almost destroyed my retinas by demonically peering at my computer monitor’s cathode-ray tube, for what seemed like an eternity, reading their threads (see Jute).
Where Did They Find The Time To Write This Stuff?!! These folks (see Planter’s Cashews) have Compulsively Committed themselves to putting in some Heavy Lifting (akin to what a bra does for a woman over fifty) in the Writing and Editing Departments, just like those hermit-scribes from the Middle Ages in their cold castles, scratching on their vellums, living only on Funnel Cakes and Desani water. (Cue in the theme song from “Spaceship Earth”)
They’re taking legal pads, journals, lap tops, digital cameras, notebooks, hand-held GPS’s, tape recorders, Wi-Fi 24/7 Live Feed TV cameras, et.cet-errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrra, on their trips to WDW.
Good God, Man! When do they sleep?! You would think that they were on a quest to write the Great American Novel. Or solve the problem of World Peace. (Cue in the theme song from “It’s A Small World”.)
At least one of them gulps down gallons of various alcoholic beverages daily, beginning with a 3.2% Rolling Rock Breakfast Chaser and graduating to a 100 Proof Glen Livet late night aperitif. He’s very specific about what and when he drinks.
Page 6.
I think he moonlights as a stocker in an undisclosed ABC store. His liver must be larger than Space Mountain.
Though after reading all of the work he put into his ‘threads’ (see Twine), I don’t blame him! After all of that Obsessive Behavior, I’d need a drink, too (see Rusty Nail).
They all post some very nice pictures, though. (Extra points.)
Besides, I have a LIFE, with Wife and three grown Kids, and a real J-O-B!
Let me think…
Pause… (Thinking.)
Another pause… (Still thinking.)
Longer pause….. (Thinking some more.)
Much longer pause……… (Totally oblivious at this point. “What was the question?”)
“OK. I’ll do it!” Famous Last Words. Akin to kneeling on the scaffolding and handing your ax man a coin.
So, without any further ado, adieu, doo-doo, or Doo-be, doo-be, dooooooo! (Frank Sinatra), here goes nothing...
* * *
Page 7.
CHAPTER 1
The Ghost
The four of us were standing in Fantasyland in front of Peter Pan’s Flight. DH (Dark Hubris) volunteered to get Fast Passes for the next ride. That same DH (Devilishly Harmless) had a system. When you’re at WDW, you’ve got have a system. Otherwise, Disney World will grind you into Mickey Mouse’s (MM, first hidden Mickey) pavement without a… system.
PART OF A SYSTEM: Get Fast Passes first, and then ride whatever.
DH (Disemboweled Heartache) suddenly slipped quickly through the crowds like smoke and disappeared. When the three of us walked off the PPF ride (the Price of Peppermint Frappacinos? No, Peter Pan’s Flight, silly), DH (Debauched Helium: see DH can mean anything, or nothing, or a bunch of nonsensical stuff in between, which is much more fun) was standing nonchalantly by the railing like a blond Cary Grant waiting for a train, Fast Passes in hand. It was right then and there that I knew I had to do him a favor: give him a James Bond kind of moniker.
It had to be: him. The essence of DH (Deviled Ham? Let it go.). Timeless. Clever. Intriguing. Hmmmmmmm. By Jove (whoever he was), I had it.
And his alias would be, drum roll please… The Ghost.
The Ghost nickname fit him like an Armani suit on Pierce Brosnan because of his uncanny ability to steal, like a B-2 bomber, only smaller, through the DW Masses, and because the letters DH are, well, boring and hard to remember what they actually stand for, if anything at all.
The other talent DH (Delete…), The Ghost had was his unnaturally accurate sense of driving direction in getting from hotel A, to park B; and then, after fireworks, in the pitch black darkness, get from park B back to the Caribbean Beach A (ABC backwards).
He would accomplish this Feat with one hand tied behind his back, and blindfolded in his Blizzard White Lexus, Luxury Utility, LX ($73,800 Starting List, but who’s counting?), 5.7 Liter, V8, 383 HP, with Teflon, Stain Guarded upholstery made out of soft, Egyptian blue-and-pale-yellow striped cotton, and gold threads woven into it, and a 24K Golden Ankh hanging from the rear mirror. He was that good.
No, he sped through the night in his Jaguar Convertible, XKR ($92,700 Basic List, Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell price) 4.2 Liter, V8, 420 HP, Ruby Red exterior with Silver Sparkly things in the paint, and Mother-of-Pearl Inlay in the interior’s everything!
Page 8.
Would you believe he chauffeured us in his Chrysler 1987 Classic Dodge Caravan, XE with Standard Peeling EPA Burgundy paint, property taxed at $15.25 out of Sympathy by the City; 2.6 Liter, Almost Big 4 Cylinder engine with hardly any Get-Up-And-Go horsepower left; 287,000-plus miles with a never-been-turned-back-odometer, Genuine
DuPont Naugahyde seats and the FREE Factory Installed mosquito fogger with Unlimited clouds of blue smoke belching out of the exhaust? (A run-on sentence if ever I’ve seen one!)
No? Right. That’s my car.
I think he really drives a car with an H Factorized in the SUV’s grille, and four other letters in the name. I really can’t remember. I don’t know cars. The beige passenger seats with lumbar supports were very comfortable, though.
Anyway, he was good. Very good.
I told him, “You’re good.”
And he truly was. Is. (Present Tense Please: He’s still very much vertical.)
* * *
Page 9.
CHAPTER 2
MMH
The four of us met up and were standing in front of the Pirates of the Caribbean.
I looked over at MMH and she was holding a large, empty plastic cup.
“What’s that for?” I asked her.
“What?”
“That,” I said and I pointed to the cup.
“It’s for, you-know,” she said shyly.
“No. I don’t know,” I said with my best, poker face.
“Just in case.”
“Just-in-case-what?”
“Just in case Shut-Up!” she said.
“The only time you’re going to need that cup is after you eat lunch at the Harbor House. Ride or no ride,” I said.
“Very funny, wise-guy. Ha-ha.”
Then I grabbed for the cup and tripped and we both went down.
“Let go of my CUP, YOU DOO-FUS!” MMH shouted, the blood vessels in her neck standing out.
Just then a young woman walking by whispered to her husband, “Don’t you think we ought to do something?”
“No,” he said. “Lunatics. Happens all the time. Besides, we’re at Disney World. Keep going.” And she trotted after him looking back at us rolling around on the concrete over her shoulder.
About that time, a hidden Radio Shack CCTV #5300 camera with Hubble sized telescopic lense swiveled around and trained it’s Mega Pixels on us.
In Security, a green (not actually green, just new, but you never know at WDW) CM (Chagrinned Marshall) said, “Roger. Roger, take a look at the monitor 7. Shouldn’t we send somebody up?”
Bored, Roger, with three stripes on his sleeve, swiveled around in his chair looking.
“Nah,” he said. “It’ll be over in a minute. Happens all the time. Focus the 53-Hundred on that good lookin’ blond standing over there with those Big…. MICKEY MOUSE EARS!” (Now you know that never happens at WDW. Yeah, sure!)
Laughing, we both stopped play-fighting at the same time and stood up, MMH checking her cup for damage.
The Ghost and My Bride were standing there shaking their heads, thinking “For-The-Love-Of-God, You Two!”, but they were smiling the whole time, too.
Gotta love us!
It could have happened that way…
* * *
Page 10.
CHAPTER 3
“My Bride”
PART I
Inquiring Minds at the Magic Kingdom are always pulling me off Main Street and onto the sidewalk (if they can find an empty space, not crammed with Guests) to ask: “How did you meet your Bride?” And, I’m happy to tell them the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Well, most of it, anyway.
“It was a dark and stormy night…, “ I usually begin.
No, that’s not it at all.
It goes like this…
When I was single, I use to cash and deposit parts of my pay checks at a branch of a bank that’s changed its name three times, and ownership once, since then.
I had been cashing my checks at this particular branch for over a year while I lived by myself (that what ‘single’ means) in an apartment on the third floor on the Boulevard.
One day after going inside the bank, I noticed this one particular teller behind the teller line. She had long, dark hair, a warm smile, and something intangible about her eyes. I don’t know why I didn’t notice her before. But, I certainly did now.
I left the branch that day thinking about her.
The days expended themselves day-after-day-after-day…, as they sometimes do, and I continued to think about her.
Before I started my thinking about her, I’d go in the branch and stand in the shortest line to get my payroll check cashed and get out. That was BTAH, B.C. (Before Thinking About Her). Then, After (I started) Thinking About Her (ATAH, A.D.), I’d stand in her line, no matter what length it was. I’m romantic like that. There was something about that girl.
And, I couldn’t shake her eyes.
I also couldn’t tell you the minute, or the hour, or even the day, it happened, but one day I decided to ask her out. You know. To find out what she was like. Up close and personal, out from behind and away from that teller line.
She was intriguing.
I (there’s a whole lot of ‘I’s going on here) took a shower that day and it wasn’t even Saturday, polished my boots because I was wearing boots back then, black combat to be exact, put on clean underwear, jeans, and shirt. That much I’m sure I would have done.
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It’s called ‘man’s memory’, as opposed to ‘women’s memory’ which is absolute. Then I slipped on my one-and-only brown corduroy jacket. It was my living-by-myself, not-so-starving-but-not-making-it-either, Artist Look.
Standing in her line, I was a little nervous. I had no check to cash. No prop. I was going in without any net. The line was moving sooooooooo slooooooooow but my heart was pounding sooooooooo LOUD! My ears even felt hot.
“What can I do for you today?” she said.
You see, I was no Player. No Romeo. Just an Average, Interested, Mildly Scared Guy. I had no ‘line.’
“I don’t have a check to cash, but I was wondering if you would like to go out sometime? Maybe go to the Silver Moon for some Chinese?” (THUMP-thump, THUMP-thump, THUMP-thump… Stop it!)
I didn’t even know her name. But her eyes were green.
And this is what she said. She said, “I have to go to a wedding this weekend. Maybe some other time.” And she smiled.
“Sure. Some other time,” I said. I looked deep into her eyes trying to find a lie.
And, then, I turned around in slooooooo-mooooooooo-tion.
(THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP-THUMP… Go ahead heart, it’s over now.)
Cue Big let-down. Breathe out…
* * *
Page 12.
“My Bride”
PART II
Of course you know (No-Dust-On-You) the story can’t end there. (Because she wouldn’t be My Bride, now would she? Unless, there was another Bride. That’s what’s known in Disney World as a ‘Teaser’.)
I fretted as to what to do. I kept on thinking about her.
I (here we go with the ‘I’s again) thought, well, it’s one of two things. Either, she really has a wedding to go to, or, she’s just being polite and it’s her way of telling me ‘No way, Jose.’ She was cute, though.
Calendar courtesy dictated that I start my Mental Debate Marathon on the Monday after her ‘wedding’ week-end. Over the next few weeks, I kicked around the “Should I ask her out again…?” I kicked it around, and around, and around some more…
I enlisted Ma Jong, a Ouija board, the All Knowing ‘Shake-It-And-Ask-It-A-Question-For-An-Answer’, Black Eight-Ball; dried Chicken Bones thrown on the kitchen floor, Lipton tea bags (because I had no loose tea leaves), Parcheesi, and Jeopardy as my spiritual guides to help find me an appropriate answer. Asking a priest was out of the question.
So, reversing the order, Alex Trebek asked: “For five-hundred dollars, did a certain scaredy cat have the brass ones to ask out the mysterious, cute teller a second time?” It was a terribly long answer to print on such a small Jeopardy game, question board.
I stammered, “What is: ‘Yes, I did.’”
Then Alex broke protocol and asked, “And, did she say ‘yes’ the second time?”
Yes she did, Alex.
Well, the rest is a Virginia Fairy Tale. We made it to the Silver Moon, many times, and eventually got married, which began our journey together, started Long Ago by A Prince (questionable allowances made) and a Princess.
We live and work in the Once-Capitol-of- the-Great-Unpleasantness, have Three Grown Kids (we, their fairy-taled, but not remotely royal parents, are now Almost Empty Nesters), Two Tabby Cats (one, an eighteen-and-a-half-pounder-no-matter-how-little-I-feed-him and the other, cute and mischievous like a George Clooney smile), live in a Four-Square, German Siding (BB), White House with yard; which is an integral part of our yearly Tradition of throwing both a Fourth-of-July and Halloween Extravaganza for our family, friends and neighbors (FFN’s).
I can hear you all now: “That’s so beautiful…. “
Go on. It’s OK. Let it all out. Sniff-sniff, wipe-wipe.
And, truth be told, it is.
* * *
Page 13.
CHAPTER 4
Moi
(that’s French for: Me)
“If you think I’m spilling the beans on myself, you’re crazy! I’m taking the Fifth!”
(It’s not polite to brag about one’s self, especially in the third-person.)
* * *
Page 14.
CHAPTER 5
Tip NUMERO UNO: DW’s Tug ‘0 War with Your Money
or
“Don’t Worry, Be Happy”
Money. Dineros. Clams. Saw Bucks. Just Plain Bucks. Wooden Nickels. Pieces if Eight. Anyway you cut it, like politicians and porn stars, everybody has their own, sacred opinion about it (and them) and how they (you) spend it. Saving it of course is out of the question.
Like a Carmel, California Rolls Royce dealer selling Silver Shadows, if you have to ask, you can’t afford one. So true.
It’s not that bad at Disney World.
You could have a massive heart attack tomorrow and keel over stiff as a Hobby Horse and all of your money would be sitting forlornly in your bank, or molding in your coffee can buried in the back yard, or getting flatter between your mattresses, all for nothing. Think about it.
Here’s what I do. And, again, as with any unsolicited advice, you’re not obligated to pay attention to it, much less follow it. Just like not paying attention to the frightening snores from your wife, while she sleeps sitting up on the couch as the wheel on Wheel of Fortune cranks around, slapping those pins so loud that the glass in your house’s windows furiously rattle. As you gently turn off the TV, she awakes suddenly with a snort and says indignantly, “I was watching that!”
I digress. Again. I’m sorry. (Not really)
OK now.
I’ll go up to one of the check-out counters at the Port Orleans, Riverside Cotton Mill food court, after picking up my Cuban sandwich, with Plantain instead of pickle, baked Rutabaga chips with brown sugar and cinnamon, and a Frosty Barley Pop; and the CM (Cash Maven) barks the total for me.
I do this: I turn my head as far over my left shoulder as I can, close my eyes, outstretch my hands toward the CM (Cranky Maitre d’) while holding my wallet open, which is stuffed silly with Andrew Jacksons. I let him, or her, as the case may be, take out as many of the AJ’s necessary to pay for me and My Bride’s lunch, letting them do the subtractive math for my change. Only then do I finally open my eyes.
About half way through my time at DW, I whisk my thumb across my opened wallet, again without closely looking, to gauge tentatively how much Legal Tender I have left. Just to be sure that I’m still solvent, you understand. I wouldn’t want to be unpleasantly surprised at impending bankruptcy. Especially in a Faraway Foreign Country, named
Page 15.
Florida, even if it is a Magical Place. After all, it’s no sin to be prudent. Remember the parable of the Ten Bridesmaids with Lamp Oil and Pastrami Sandwiches?
Why you ask, do I treat my money in such a cavalier fashion? I don’t. I’m not frittering it away on Lottery tickets. I’m investing it in… myself!
Aren’t you afraid some CM (Coin Mongrel) will take out an extra Jackson for themselves? “HA!” I say. “A thief working at Walt Disney World? Impossible… Besides, if you can’t trust an employee at Disney World, who can you trust?”
I’ve put up with that snarling, unappreciative BOSS all year long!
I’ve worked hard to help Inflate the National Debt by voting for my state’s favorite, federal politicians who in turn craft legislation to bring in tons of delicious Pork BBQ to for us, Pork BBQ that we don’t need, but do love to eat, and that same Pork BBQ the taxpayers of other states are forced to pay for, but can’t eat themselves, because our state’s politicians were quicker on the Pork BBQ draw than theirs. Too bad they’ll never taste how delicious it is! Especially with hot-sauce and Cole slaw.
Plus, I’ve struggled valiantly all year to keep the clothes dryer’s lint filter clean and the yard Dandelions exterminated.
I’ve worked hard! You’ve worked hard! We’ve ALL worked hard! Sing Polly, Wolly Doodle all the daaaaaaaaay! I’m exhausted.
We deserve a VACATION! Even if we have to pay for it ourselves, because a federal government agency, any agency, won’t give us a modest grant to study the effects of Disney Magic on our flagging libidos. That doesn’t sound quite right. What does a ‘flagging libido’ look like?
So, I say, pamper yourself. If you don’t, no one else will.
Why let a little thing like money come between you and the Poor House and one of the Happiest Time’s in Your Life, at the Happiest Place in the Known World. Besides, it’s (hold your breath) Only Money! The Treasury Department will print more.
And you say, “Only money? Oh, Sacrilege! Where’s my rope and stake and pile of firewood?”
But, remember grasshopper: the Spectral Magic Parade doesn’t follow the hearse! Splurge a little on yourself, and on your immediate Support Group. That Level 5 Coronary could happen to you at any moment!
* * *
Page 16.
CHAPTER 6
101 Questions for a Man Named Marty Sklar
or
“The WEENIE KING”
“Huh,” you think. “I thought the king of weenies was Oscar-Meyer? Besides, what’s a hot dog got to do with Walt Disney World? Plenty.
This would be Marty Sklar’s Commandment IV. No I’m not talking about Moses or Charleton Heston. You’d be close, though. He’s a very Distant Cousin of the two. Think BIGGER! Think Earthly Amusement, not Heavenly Salvation.
This tiny bratwurst of an idea has to do with the inescapable WOW! Factor at DW that hypnotizes your eyes and draws you in like a Polish Countess to a bowl of Borsch colored diamonds!
Rule Number Four: “Lead visitors from one area to another using visual magnets (see Weenie) and give them a reward (another Weenie) for making the journey.” Marty must have really liked hot dogs!
It is one of the Top Ten Platitudes mid-wifed by MS (Mister Sorcerer).
It’s the “Look at the size of that thing!” as you stand in front of Spaceship Earth. It’s the “How did they do that!” as you fly Soarin’. It’s the “Gee Whiz, I Can’t Believe It!” that fills your head as you are mesmerized by the “Illuminations” fireworks-slash-soundtrack and you involuntarily blow that little whistle through your lips.
“…that’s Amazing!” you think, as you stumble dumbfounded, your heart pounding, stepping off Mission Space, or Dinosaur, or Test Track, or …... That’s all Marty and his Peeps. (I included them because I’ll bet they’re involved, too).
I call him Marty but I’ve never had the privilege of meeting him, much less any of his Little Chickens. Maybe one day….
Marty is the head of Imagineering. You know the combination of the words ‘imagination’ and ‘engineering’.
The things I’d like to ask him. Like, tell me about Walt. You know, Mr. Disney. What was he really like? How do you guys go about dreaming up this stuff? Do you vaporize chemical substances or snort hallucinogenic mushrooms, while sitting in a darkened conference room with black lights, burning incense, with Ravi Shankar music playing in the background? Have nearly toxic levels of Mother Nature’s Dopamined-Creative-Juices-at-Peep-Birth played a significant part in this wonderful craziness?
What’s the process like from idea, to drawing board, to pouring concrete around steel, to us finally getting a Fast Pass for the new ride? How long does the process take from beginning to end? What’s the criteria for making a project? I’ll bet money is somehow involved. It always is.
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Who gives the ‘Go’, the ‘Green Light’, the ‘Let’s Rock ‘n Roll’, the ‘Pull the Trigger’ on an idea? Or do you use Tarot cards? Or a Ouija board? Darts?
Does the CM (Charming Maniac) with the biggest loafers and heaviest gold neck chains make the Final Decision? What does a Producer produce? Do you like Boxers or Briefs? Just kidding. I wanted to see if you DIS-Boarders were paying attention. (He
probably goes Commando.) Do you really like Spinach Quiche? Why? And what’s a Sklar, anyway?
Inquiring Minds want to know stuff. And Marty seems to be the Go-To-Guy. It would be fascinating to hear him reminisce.
* * *
Page 18
CHAPTER 7
Epic EPCOT Emergency
or
“A Not So Funny Thing Happened On the Way to Illuminations”
PART I
On September 19th of 2007, during a late, Thursday afternoon, my Bride and I, and Marty Mouse House and The Ghost were at EPCOT (Every Person Comes Out Tired).
Her DH (Distinguished Hedonist), now appropriately nicknamed The Ghost, “for The Simple Fact”, as my Jesuit friend Father Henry Chicken-Legs, S.J., OOJD says (that’s Society of Jesus’, Order of the Old Jesuit Dudes), for the simple fact that I don’t like referring to DH as DH because the initials are so… vague, and still boring.
In the fading light, we watched a line of purple thunderheads inch forward from the east towards us, on our left, as we stood at the northern rail on the Showcase Plaza facing south, peering across the World Showcase Lagoon.
The Ghost looked at me and then to my Bride and then to the threatening glacier sized wall of black-and-blue advancing clouds and asked expectantly, “Do you want to stay for the fireworks?”
It was 8:30 pm, there-a-bouts.
“We’re here, now,” I said. “Let’s chance it.” Famous Last Words.
The wind picked up as soon as I said ‘it.’
We were standing next to an empty yellow tent erected for the upcoming Food and Wine Festival. The tent’s flaps rustled uncertainly. My Bride and I brought no raincoats.
“Ladies and Gentleman. Boys and Girls of all ages….,” crackled those black, vertical speakers on poles. No. Wait a minute. That’s the Ringling Brothers Barnum & Bailey Circus’s announcement. Please excuse.
“Ladies and Gentlemen. In just 30 minutes, Walt Disney World presents: ILLUMINATIONS…!” That’s better.
MMH pulled out two tiny packages, each about the size of a piece of Chiclets gum, and announced, “Here are raincoats for the both of you. Got ‘em at the Dollar Store for a quarter each!” She was beaming!
It was like unfolding a Glad Wrap Puzzle from Hell. Only Yellow. If those Chinese merchants could have seen us trying to unravel their two, inscrutable, transistorized, thin-as-an-onion-skin raincoats, they would have laughed themselves into a coma.
My Bride and I foolishly didn’t put them on.
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The wind picked up in earnest and the mountains of violent clouds loomed closer. But still no rain. We could see lightning flash inside the massive front like little yellow strobes inside a semi-transparent, malignant body.
“Ladies and Gentlemen…,” crooned that taped, sweet voice, unaware of our impending doom. (Note foreshadowing here.)
“In just 15 minutes Walt Disney World will present “ILLUMINATIONS!”. Please hold on to any small children, tiny pets, wallets, and your daffy uncle Elmer with his walker, for we will turn down all lighting….” so that when I suddenly have to go relieve my Swollen-to-Bursting-Bladder because I should have gone before the show, but what? lose my place in the crushed third row from the front, no way, even though when I finally MUST go I most certainly will trip in the pitch black darkness and crack my face open on the sidewalk “….for your enjoyment of the spectacular presentation of ILLUMINATIONS! Thank-you.” I fell in love with that girl and her Voice right then and there.
The Ghost had just come back from McDonalds with vanilla ice cream cones and two large fries. McDonald’s at Disney World! Sneaky, WDW is!
At 8:51 pm large rain drops began plopping down on us.
My Bride and I struggled to get our raincoats on. It was like playing Twister, by yourself, with a piece of human-sized Glad Wrap. You know, overlapping Glad wrap layers, sticking together like they were statically Crazy Glued.
Frustrated, I shoved my hand and flailing arm through that Hoody thing where my head was suppose to go, instead of into and through my sleeve; and then, with my other hand, punched a hole through the back of my coat instead of finding my other sleeve. My Bride was putting her Glad Coat on backwards, and upside down. We were so cute together.
“DAG-NABIT! “ I yelled. No I didn’t. I said something entirely, unrepeatably else. I’ll leave that up to your excellent imagination.
The tent next to us began to madly flap and billow in the wind and now driving, warm rain. It looked like a demonic yellow monster from the Deep, Scary Sea, expanding and contracting, its fringe writhing like some wet sea creature’s mane.
And then, at 8:55 pm, all of the furies of the Nether World (think HELL) broke loose on us! (I remember the exact time because Mickey’s little hand was almost on the nine, and his big hand was on the … oh, never mind.)
I had this vivid image of a lightning bolt crashing into my body: Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzttt-WHAM!-BANG!-CRASH!-BOOM! (Not be confused with WHAM-Bam-Thank-you-Ma’am.) Cue deafening rumbling sound to fade-out: BAROOOOOOM!-CRASH!-
Page 20.
BOOM!-BOOM!-BA-Da-BOOM!, Boom, boom, boom-boom. (Not be confused with Dean Martin singing “That’s Amore”.)
My imagination continued to work overtime. Suddenly, that same Bolt of Almighty lightNinG (BANG for short) like a Berzerko X-ray machine, would light up my skeleton into a lime-glowing-green-Halloween-Thing-of-Beauty, and a nano-second later, set me ablaze into the Human Torch, soon-to-be the Crispy Critter.
Finally, after the smoke and smell, like that of a badly burnt pepperoni pizza, wafted away, what would be left of me would fall into a tiny heap of hot Carbon Dust, and The Deluge would quickly wash my careless, and now sopping wet cinders across the concrete walkway and into the Showcase Lagoon. Serves me right for foolishly thumbing my nose at Mother Nature.
But at WDW, where they control everything, nobody ever get’s hurt! Right? Riiiiiiight.
That’s what should have happened.
* * *
Page 21.
Epic EPCOT Emergency
PART II
Our Crew and other Strangers ducked (no pun intended) inside the tent and huddled together like it was our Last Day on Earth!
I clung onto the slapping tent flaps trying to look out. It was darker in that tent than if you were speeding on the track inside Space Mountain, with your hands over your closed eyes and all of the lights turned off!
Without warning, Guests started stampeding in a panic for the EPCOT Exits, which were… Far, Far Away!
I don’t know why they did it. It didn’t make any sense to me. Where were they running to? The lightning and rain were everywhere! And the Guests weren’t even seeking shelter inside the buildings.
They thought the Exits would save them!
The lightening BA-WOOOMED!!! and the rain was flying down in a blinding torrent.
“Where’s the announcement from DW to seek cover?” I hollered at The Ghost.
“They don’t do that,” he yelled back over the wind and rain.
“SHOOT-I-RECKON!!!” I said, loosely translated. (I’ve got the writing “V” chip turned on for the protection of younger eyes.)
By now we were soaking wet clear through to our spleens. Our Glad Coats stuck to us like chartreuse fly paper. We looked Beyond Ridiculous. Waaaaaaaaaay Beee-yond!
And precisely at the Stroke of NINE PM, my Imaginary Love Interest cooed out of the large speaker next to us in her best honey voice for the last time:
”Ladies and Gentlemen. Walt Disney World Proudly Presents: ILLUMINATIONS…!” Think words spoken through the water of a ten foot deep swimming pool, with ferocious bubbles.
Star shells tried to go up through the storm then suddenly veered off sideways. Firework-breaks were smothered under the wet of the unscheduled, mini-Hurricane. Aerial explosions broke like pipsqueak sized, water-logged pop, pop, pop’s, instead of their usual BANG!-BANG!-BANGS! The background music echoed forlornly: “Blub, Blub, blub-blub, blub…,” with violins.
So, now I’m thinking there’s 20,000 pounds of liquid propane fastened beneath the Showcase’s Lagoon barge begging to blow it, and us, to Smithereens! There’s 50,000, Heart Stopping Volts of Frying Electricity generated by each Lightning Strike, randomly CRASHING! around EPCOT’s Guests with a BOOOOOM!, surely ZAPPING! anything in a Your-Guess-Is-As-Good-As-Mine spot. Lucky Me, one of those spots will probably be mine!
Page 22.
And you can bet one of those BOLTS! was going for the barge. Feel the Heat!
There was the whole of Niagara Falls cascading down on us from above. There were those Pyrotechnical 15 and 30 Pound Wonder Shells, times 650 of them! all stuffed to the gills (appropriate metaphor, don’t you think?) with that Unstable Black Gunpowder packed in their Final Charges, zooming off in all directions, exploding Who-Knows-Where in this weather madness.
The Wind was so fierce that Spaceship Earth wobbled as if it were going to roll off its tee! Think: a combined recipe of natural and man-made cataclysms to make an “End of the World Showcase” Disaster Movie!
And so, after staring at each other with Mara Liasson eyes, we finally decided on a plan, which was: “Get Out Alive, NOW!”
We started running!
Long live the yellow tent!
The Ghost in his flight was a Sight to Behold. The rest of us scrambled the best we could.
I still didn’t understand. Where was the shrill of the air raid horns? Where were the Flashing Red Danger signs atop the World Showcase buildings? Where was the ‘Seek Shelter from Impending Doom’ spewing emphatically from the speakers by the lips of my Golden Tongued Siren? Why wasn’t Disney Management doing something? Probably hiding under their desks the whole time. No flies on them.
EPCOT could have at least broadcast: “This is not a Feat of Magic from our Imagineers! Animatronics played no part in this maelstrom! These are not harmless thrills and spectacular illusions concocted by us to simulate a natural disaster! This is the Real Thing! Take Cover! We’re not responsible for Injury, Death, or Loss of Bodily Functions due to any Acts of God!” The latter disclaimer written by the law offices of Shapiro, Shapiro, and Shapiro, LLC (Lawfully aLlowed to Collect), Esq (means nothing, just makes them look sophisticated and they can charge more just for having it on their letter head).
I had to stop three times on the causeway to the Exit styles to empty the water from my tennis shoes. The second emptying time, I swear, along with the water, I dumped Dorey out of one of my shoes and she flopped With Attitude down the concrete causeway, back to the Showcase Lagoon. I could have been mistaken, though, because I was Running-for-My-Life at the time, filled from scalp-to-flat-feet with TERROR!
The fountains on our right, just before Innovations, were gaily spraying their blue and green flood-lighted water high up into the air, oblivious to the panic stricken Guests madly sloshing thru the rain. That’s what’s known as: CLASSIC IRONY.
Page 23.
Of course, you guessed it. Just as we passed the Leave A Legacy’s Tombstones, the Mayhem suddenly quit.
Mother Nature has a warped sense of humor.
Pause. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock…
You will be relieved to know that all of the members of our Peep Squad came out unscathed, with the exception of everyone having some extreme, water induced skin wrinkling, stinky feet, and the shedding of at least ten pounds of body fat, unwanted anyway, all according to the natural laws of Extreme Fear and Exercise.
Life Lesson Learned.
(I may have embellished a little in the telling of this true story.)
* * *
Page 24.
CHAPTER 8
“I used to be a VIRGIN….
…until I went to Port Orleans, Riverside.”
I will never forget my very first time. I can still remember it as if it happened yesterday. I was excited. And nervous. A little bit scared. Probably clumsy, too. But, boy, what an experience! And, I first had this once-in-a-lifetime experience in a suite at Port Orleans, Riverside! Sigh…….
The earth turned under me! The stars spun in the Heavens! Celestial Angels sang: “HALLLLLLLLLLL-eee-luuuuuuu-jaaah..…!“ (the ‘j’ is silent)
Sigh……. again.
“CUT!”
It’s not what you think. And I know what you’re thinking. You’d be wrong. Again.
I’m talking about discovering the beauty of the sleek, white, porcelain Crane for the very, first time.
Yup, that’s right. I’m talking about experiencing the use of a…. TOILET!
Not just any ol’ toilet, mind you. But a Model #150-403, PF/2 Energizer Series, Serial #404488, 1.6 GPF (Great Palpitations Forever) toilet.
You know. Water Closet. Outhouse. Johnnie’s John. An HDD. (Honey Dipper’s Delight) My heart races and I get breathless just thinking about it. I feel the same way about My Bride’s Lasagna and her Aggression Cookies!
Like I said, it’s not just any old toy-let. It’s a Model #150-403! It’s a guar-AWN-teed 5,000 air-assisted, water saving, Fantastic Flushes with its PSI Power that would put a Nimitz class, aircraft carrier’s catapult launch-pistons to shame.
Let’s put it this way: If, after Doing Your Business (DYB), and you pushed the chrome Flush Button before realizing you had accidentally dropped your cell phone in the bowl and you stupidly reached in the swirling vortex to grab the disappearing phone, the Great Power of the Almighty Air Assist combined with the Sucking water would grab your hand and forearm trying to flush it also down the Hole. And, in a state of FEAR, you would instantly dislocate your arm at your shoulder as you tried to keep it from disappearing down the Gaping Maws of that Demonic Beast! I exaggerate you not!
Upon explaining What Happened, the doctor and nurses at the Emergency Room would laugh openly at you for being so dumb. Then they would give you their most solemn ‘You should have known better’ looks, shaking their heads slowly with a loud chorus of TSK-TSK-TSKing.
Page 25.
Back to reality…
“You are the only nut I know who gets his jollies by looking into the tank of a toilet at Disney World,” my Bride has said. She’d be right, too. I’m not remotely ashamed to admit it.
Secretly, I think DW Guests (see MEN) at any of their resorts who are curious enough to dare to take a peek into the Wonderous Inner Sanctum of the Crane tank, will shake and shiver when they discover the Coolness of this Modern Marvel.
Of course, Truth Be Told, I received no compensation whatsoever from the fine folks at the Crane Fanny Works for mentioning their Privy Potties (PP).
But, if their Corporate Elite were to feel compelled to send me a token of their gratitude, I have had my eye on an up and coming Time Share at the Wondrous
Contemporary Resort, a stone’s throw from the Magic Kingdom, with its cavern sized kitchen accompanied by a Balkan Granite topped cooking island; two glorious Bamboo floored bedrooms, and their bathrooms, with live-in Masseuse and Gardener (puzzling enough because there will be no gardens in the bedrooms or the bathrooms); Living Area To Die For, with balcony; and six, Lifetime Park Hopper Passes with Unlimited, Absolute-Head-of-the-Line Fast Passes, along with DW’s Eternal Dining Plan, tips included.
I would gladly sign for these gratuities from the FedEx driver without the slightest twinge of guilt or hesitation.
* * *
Page 26.
CHAPTER 9
“Murder Most Foul!”
I can seriously help ABC in the TV ratings wars, even though they haven’t asked for it. That’s the kind of guy I am.
Even though I’m Lost most of the time, Desperate Housewives want to see me Dancing with the Stars while I pretend to be The Bachelor interested in joining a Women’s Murder Club, Wife Swap-ping Supernannys that aren’t mine, then running my dog named Ugly Betty to Grey’s Anatomy for a hemorrhoid-ectomy, ambush/filmed by America’s Funniest Home Videos, Jeopardizing her (Ugly Betty, silly) Wheel of Fortune. Whew. Got that?
Think about it. WDW has the perfect set-up for a new, low production cost, high ratings series surprisingly titled: “Anything with the word MURDER in it!” (Cue loud, excitingly repetitious music with a downbeat: DUN-DUN, Dun, dnnnnnnunnnnnnnnnn! Needs more n’s.)
Here are some titles and ideas:
“Test Track: Crash Course to Murder”
“The Big Thunder Mountain Murder Train”
“Dinosaur: The Archeologist Became a Snack Wrap”
“Everest: Expedition to Murder”
“Jungle Cruise to Murder” or “Cruise to Murder Jungle” (A clever play on words!)
“The Mission to Space Murders” (A twofer.)
“The Splash Mountain Murders” (Another twofer.)
“It’s A Small Murderous World”
“The EPCOT Hide ‘n Seek Murders” (BONUS: Included is a viewer search on TV for half-hidden clues throughout the Nation’s Pavilions, as the show progresses, to the murderer’s identity with prizes awarded to the winning viewers.)
And, finally, my all time favorite: “The Soarin’ Murder Mystery”, or the SMM as the Producers will fashionably want to call it.
Picture this: Soon after the camera zooms in on a hack-sawed wing strut getting ready to snap like a dried wish-bone, the glider collapses, and our victim plummets into a snow covered mountain. SPLAT! Big surprise.
I could go on forever. At least 200 episodes worth.
You get my drift. Smells like EMMY! to me.
Page 27.
In case the Big Wigs at ABC are teasingly interested in my copyrighted ideas to give them a Ratings BONANZA (not to be confused with Lorne Green), I would relinquish all rights for a Vespa Motor Scooter, NOT to be compared with a tacky ol’Moped, Red Of Course, Model #MC-SL12, 150cc, 4 stroke (1 stroke would probably do me in) with
Factory Included Italian Chick Magnet and Rich Italian leather upholstery. My Bride might object to the ICM. (Not to be confused with the ICBM: Italian Chick “Buxom”
Magnet)
And when the FedEx man putt-putts up to my front door, with beautiful Italian Chicks hanging all over him, I’ll sign for my Vespa with all of the pious Gratzi’s I can muster. Of course, in deference to My Bride, and our grown-up children, I’ll obediently shoo away the legions of gorgeous Italian Babes. (Sniff-sniff.)
Let’s see. Murder. Even pretend, TV murder filmed at Walt Disney World…
Not going to happen.
Ever!
* * *
Page 28.
CHAPTER 10
Debacled at Animal Kingdom
or
“A Chit Chat with Joey Earring”
Here in the Use-To-Be Confederate Capitol of the Old South (see Dixie Landings), we have the Travel Channel, #46 to be exact, on Comcast cable.
No gifts were given to me by the fine folks at Comcast and, according to the Truth in Advertising, I own only 19 shares of their stock, by quirky happenstance not of my doing, recently paying out an embarrassing dividend of a $1.19.
However, if the Comcast Board were to receive More Fame and More Fortune after this plug, and they felt duty bound to reward me with a small trinket of their gratitude, I must confess I’ve had my eye on a 52” Sharp Aquos 1080p LCD HDTV with built- in DVD player, 600 watt Dolby ‘Rock-Your-World’ Surround Sound speakers, and add-on Fry Baby and Black and Decker Theater style popcorn popper. Out of politeness, I would sign for it from the FedEx woman with all of the humility and grace of that of a hungry Czech standing over a roaster pan stuffed with hot Halupkis.
But, I digress. I’ll try not to let it happen again. (But, there’s no guarantee.)
One night, the Travel Channel was featuring ‘All Things at Walt Disney World’. And on a portion of the two hour show, a CM (Charismatic Meister) was identified as the Imagineer Most Responsible for Imagineering Animal Kingdom. He wore a long, dangly earring on his left ear, beads, feather, and all. I can’t even begin to crack that code. His name was Joey-the-Earring.
Joey seemed like a nice enough guy, but very animated. Hmmmmmm. Wait a minute. Brain Clue. Maybe he wasn’t a guy at all but an animatronic posing as an Imagineer. That would explain a lot of things.
Anyway, having visited Animal Kingdom (AK for Always Krazy) a number of times, 137 to be exact, but who’s counting, I would like to have an earnest chit-chat with Joey-the-Earring.
The first thing I would ask him is this: “Good Gawd Man! What were you thinking when you designed the width of the streets?” Or as I lovingly like to call them: The Gauntlets of Death. “Were you insanely trying to save money on asphalt?”
Joey-the-Ear obviously ignored Marty Sklar’s Commandment Number III: Thou Shalt Organize the Flow of People (and Ideas).
Page 29.
Instead, Joey-the-Ermine invented a new Commandment: XVII, Thou Shalt Cram as many People into an Unforgiving Space as You Can! And, and again, Plus it with hundreds of large strollers with screaming kids in 100 degree weather, tossing in a touch of lightning and heavy rain every now and then; and for good measure, throw in their wild-eyed, desperate and sweat soaked Mothers and Fathers!
All of this dove tails nicely with what I call the “Moving Wall of China Phenomenon”. The MWCP, as I like to refreshingly call it, is a phenomenon whereby you have four people, usually family members, weighing approximately 250 pounds a piece, walking side-by-side, in lock-step, half-a-Ton-Style, down one of Joey’s claustrophobically narrow streets, moving at the pace of the snow melting off the mountain slopes at Expedition Everest. (Cue Total-Unbelieving-Look! with “Hey, that snow’s painted on!”)
Now, you get it.
Let’s do the math. Don’t worry, it’s Simple math.
A 15 foot wide street, minus 12 feet for the Half Ton Moving Wall, and minus another 6.5 feet for the strategically placed Animal Kingdom’s Pretzel cart with Minute Maid Fruit Punch and other selections, coupled with its bored CM (Cherokee Madman), leaves you a Negative 3.5 feet in which to get by! Negative, as in The Natural Laws of Physics are Absolute: You Can’t Make It! Even in ‘Honey, I Shrunk Myself’ mode. No how, no way! No time this year, even! Good Luck, Charlie!
The Ghost could make it through. He’s that good.
The second Great Idea (see Mistake) Joey-the-Enforcer made was the addition of those handy baby strollers. It was a stroke of genius: large, tank-like baby strollers plus heart-brakingly narrow streets. See where I’m going?
Fly-on-the-wall moment: Animal Kingdom Park Management board meeting.
Setting: conference room with huge, round table. AK’s (Always Krowded) Park Director asks a circle of haggard faces, “What can we further do to enhance our Park’s experience for our Guests?”
Joey-the-Enforcer ominously clears his throat. Other CM (Curiously Maligned) executives get nervous.
“We could bolt two of our strollers’ together,” he said, “side-by-side, for our Guests who have unwittingly made the mistake of having two small kids at roughly the same time.” Tepid Applause. The committee members have each been to Animal Kingdom exactly one time, 10 years ago, and they remember, involuntarily rubbing their ankles.
And, Joey-the-Rhododendron falsely sensing a Good Thing, goes Beyond his Wildest Inhibitions.
Page 30.
He fatally blurts out, “We could even bolt three strollers together!” At which point Joey-The-Dead-Man gets bombarded with hundreds of balled-up agenda papers (stroller complaints included), and one, heavy glass ash tray.
The Fine Folks at DW helpfully suggest you remember to bring your sunscreen, hats, water bottles, and rain coats to have a Magical Time while visiting their Parks.
They conveniently left out ‘shin guards’, which you will need to wear backwards on your legs at AK (Ankles getting Kracked) from the swarms of strollers that will be driven into your Achilles tendons.
After it happens, and it will happen, countless times, the jarring sharp pain in the back of your ankles will be excruciating as you turn around with that accusing look of “What the HECK...?!!!” (V-chip still on…) in your eyes.
The Mother, or MONSTER!!!, if you prefer, who slammed into your heels, suddenly looks up into the sky with that pretentious look of “I wonder if it is going to rain today?” Her Precious Baby stares at you with those big, innocent baby-eyes that seem to say “I’m sooooo sorry, man.” You can forget about an apology from the M-O-M. Isn’t going to happen.
Another Painful Phenomenon is what I lovingly like to call: AK’s Domino Collision (that’s AK-DC, not to be confused with AC-DC, which my lawyers will not let me go into here).
This is where hundreds of people are moving in one direction at-a-clip, mostly all Lost, and someone, usually a member of the ‘Great, Faster-Now, Moving Wall’ (which really isn’t that fast), suddenly stops, and bends over (another Phenomenon you don’t want to witness, especially if standing directly Behind that person) to tie his, or her, shoe. It’s like a human Train Wreck. People start plowing into each other, Accordion Style. This is where your portable Air Bag comes in handy. It’s your only defense.
In parting, to Joey-The-Earring I say, “Nice try, bud. But you Goofy-ed, Big Time. (Disney humor. Ha-ha.) Better luck next time.”
“Oh yeah, your earring doesn’t match your shirt.”
* * *
Continued on following quote...
"I have and I do!"
"Many times."
"I'm stalling because I've got to post 10 times to get my photo on my 'thread'."
