Friday, January 07, 2005

The Happiest Place On Earth (Even For People With Severed Fingers and Huge Space Ranger Asses)

Finger Sandwiches
I never met Walt Disney and I therefore can’t tell you how he intended to have his vision for Disneyland live on after he was gone. But if old Walt truly believed that having people with severed fingers sell $7 turkey sandwiches was the right way to visually represent the splendor of the Magic Kingdom, he was one sick motherfucker.

We got to Disneyland around 11:30 and all I’d eaten by then was a Starbucks cinnamon twist and a venti latte. I was famished and when I saw the little snack shop out of the corner of my eye, I bolted for it like Snow White in hot pursuit of one of her midget friends. In the cooler was a small arrangement of sandwiches, and I zeroed-in on the turkey immediately.

“Can I help you?” the middle-aged Hispanic woman behind the counter asked.

“Yeah. I’ll take a turkey sandwich.”

“OK. Can I get you any chips or Snapple with that?” (They’re always trying to up-sell you at Disneyland, as if paying SEVENTY-FIVE DOLLARS to get in isn’t enough of a shock to your system and the savings you had put aside to buy porn.)

“No, thanks. Just the sandwich.”

The woman fetches my breakfast from the cooler, punches some keys on the register and tells me my total comes to $7.34. I hand her a five and three ones. She sets my money on the register and begins to withdraw my change from the drawer. As she does so, I notice that the first two knuckles on her left index finger --- the very finger she’s using to slide the quarters and dimes out of their respective compartments --- are totally and completely gone.

“Jesus H. Fucking Christ on a stick!” I say. “What the hell is that?”

“It’s my finger.”

“If that’s a finger, I’m Buzz Lightyear and this wristwatch is my secret link to Star Command. That is NOT a finger, missy.”

“It’s not, sir?!” she says, waving her emaciated little stump in my face. “If it’s not a finger, what is it?”

“You tell me, sister. What is it? Is this some kind of twisted little Disney inside joke? Do all of the cast members with severed digits get oral from the Mad Hatter or a free funnel cake or something? Or is this your personal homage to Captain Hook?”

“None of the above, dipshit,” she says. “This is the finger I’m going to use to put mayo and mustard on your sandwich.”

With that she squirts a long dollop of Miracle Whip directly onto her wannabe finger and runs it across the top layer of turkey. My stomach begins to feel warm and queasy. If she doesn’t remove her little piggy from my overpriced late breakfast this instant, someone with nine and a half fingers is going to be mopping up vomit.

Time To Locate The Star Command Salad Bar, Space Ranger Starla
We made it to the 3:15 Buzz Lightyear show in Tomorrowland. We’ve seen the show before, but much like the collection of Barney videos we have at Evans World Headquarters, Barney’s Biggest Fan and Left-Handed, Power-Hitting Son have no problem watching it again and again and again, until they’ve memorized the dialogue and dance steps and can recite the whole skit in their sleep.

The show was somewhat different this time, however, because the cast member dressed in a green Space Ranger outfit had a huge ass. Taking a calculated risk, I asked Hot Wife to confirm my assessment of the junk in Starla’s trunk.

“Honey, is it me or does Starla have a really big butt?”

“What are you talking about?” she said. “Put your dinagling back in your pants and watch the show, idiot.”

“I’m trying to watch the show, but Starla’s big old ass keeps blocking my view of Zurg.”

Hot Wife just rolled her eyes. I saw then that it was incumbent on me to speak up. I stood up, put both hands high in the sky and said, “HOLD IT! HOLD IT! STOP THE SHOW! HOLD ON FOR A SECOND!”

The music stopped. Buzz and Zurg and Starla stopped dancing. All eyes were on me.

“I’m sorry, but Starla’s big fat ass keeps blocking my view of the show. Mr. Lightyear, is there a gym at Star Command?”

“Yes, we have a small fitness center,” Buzz said. “A few elliptical trainers and treadmills – that sort of thing. And a juice bar.”

“Good,” I said. “I mean tell me if I’m wrong, but don’t you think Starla could afford to drop about 20 pounds of ass? Look at that thing, sir. Talk about ‘To infinity and beyond.’”

“He does have a point, Starla,” Buzz says, turning his attention to the owner of the outer-galaxy’s version of Shirley Hemphill. “Perhaps you might be of better service in the fight against Zurg if you cut down on the Pop Tarts and Cheetos and increase your cardio.”

“Yeah, Starla,” I said. “I spent two months’ salary getting into this park and if I had known my hard-earned money was going to get me a front-row seat to look directly into your oversized caboose, I would never have gotten off of the Monorail. Now drop and give me 20!”

You know the rest. Starla runs from the stage in tears. Security escorts me from the park. We make it home in time for SportsCenter. And I go to bed happy.


At 6:56 AM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

Hi-larious. (finger sandwiches)
However, as an owner of a medium to big butt though, not sure how I feel about the second part. The first line of Sir Mix-A-Lot's "Baby Got Back"
comes to mind...

I like. big. butts. andIcannotlie

I like to think of it as affirmation of my body shape.
Yes, indeedy, there is a reason why I took up cycling in September...

At 12:49 PM, Blogger Mrs.Strizzay said...

Fat asses are totally "in" right now.

At 2:40 PM, Blogger The Macek Collective said...

There is NOTHING worse than 30 pounds of ass in a 20-pound ass Space Ranger suit. Call OSHA. There's some kind of material sheet on this one.

At 9:15 AM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

are you saying i'm fat?


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