The Plastic Kingdom

Recently I spoke with a friend who extolled the virtues of Disneyworld. Such praise would be like you or I praising our rapist because he had such a beautiful dick.

I went to Disneyworld in 1996. Granted, I was not five years old when I accompanied a group of friends that summer, but I expected more for my gas-guzzling trek down there, the $42,000 I spent on a park pass, the $1,500 meals, and the $12.95 I forked over to use the goddamn bathroom. To put it simply, I expected to be entertained.

The very first thing one notices when entering Disneyworld is how the place is Satanically cut off from the rest of reality. Literally, we spent 14 hours driving there through torrential downpours, only to see it suddenly stop as we pulled through the gates of Disney. The sky parted, the sun burst from the clouds, and little bluebirds flitted about whistling songs. I knew we were in trouble.

I literally RAN to the theme parks with my friends, eager to feast upon this gigantic park filled with exciting rides and wondrous shows. After all, had I not spent nearly three years' worth of wages for the experience? To my dismay, however, the rides at Disneyworld lack a key quality needed for any kind of excitement: discernible motion. Every ride at Disney consists of the Idiot - in this case, me - sitting in a car/boat. Said car/boat moves very slowly through a trough of water or on rails past scenes of animatronic robots singing songs. Or simply waving. After approximately 20 rides, I began plotting animatronic murder.

A few days passed, every one more disappointing than the last. Rides billed as "a white water adventure" turned out to be a boat slipping past creepy robots waving from behind "trees," all shouting in pre-recorded unison, "Welcome to Holland!" I began to hallucinate. I lost track of reality, and I started to question everything; a bench that appeared to be real wood proved to be plastic. If I saw an animal, I looked for wires protruding out of its ass. I wanted rain and mosquitos to verify the reality I vaguely remembered prior to arriving. Instead, humans in giant Disney character costumes kept touching and grabbing me, every one of them with a credit card reader in their hands.

Finally, we reached Epcot. I remembered Epcot primarily for the giant, silver, geodesic sphere in the center of the place. As a child, I always imagined the wonders that might be contained within that beautiful orb. What could be inside? Aliens? Candy? My childish imagination never let go of its dreams about it. So imagine my excitement as I stood in line at the Sphere, about to enter this holy place. My fears returned as I was placed into another little car. Slowly, the car ascended into the Sphere. Robots acted out various scenes in the advancement of telecommunications. I thought to myself, "Why on earth are we learning about telecommunications HERE??" At the end I found out: As our car came to a stop, we were faced with an unambiguous message in bright red neon: "AT+T". A fucking commercial! The beautiful, silver Sphere of Disney is a fucking commercial!

I stumbled into the light of the Disney-made day, and vowed to never return.

Ever since this rape occurred to me, friends have insisted that I was too old to enjoy the place. Perhaps. However, a place that presents itself as a Paradise can only be one to those who are wealthy and privileged. The entire park is a money funnel, designed to siphon huge amounts of cash from the wallets of the most cash-strapped families: young families. Or rather, young white, middle-class families.

I think the idea of a trash-free, clean fantasy world is a beautiful one. Just give me some fun with a theme park. I like some bang for my buck, as you all know.

Thanks Disney!