What’s so magical about the magical kingdom? Well for the price of a few peasant workers from El Salvador, it can accomplish all the things years of therapy would otherwise do: fulfill all the bullshit unrealistic ideals about your life and finally cement into your skull that a) you are special, b) somebody does love you, and c) you were better off frozen in the mental state of ignorant six year old girl.
I have several qualms about Disney World not relating to my absolute jealousy of their muti-billion dollar empire of essentially creating and destroying children’s dreams. That’s fucking awesome. I don’t like the way people my age and older treat it like an escapist paradise. Like you’re 47 and going to see Bon Jovi because that one song they play reminds of the first time you felt up your 14yr old girlfriend in the back of her dad’s sedan. Some kind of lame nostalgia trip or unnatural opiate that makes everything in the world seem fucking peachy. Thousands of underpaid workers serving overpriced shit food, miserable teenagers sweating inside Donald Duck costumes in the middle of the Florida summer, and rickety carnival rides dressed up to look like shitty Disney movies. And yet, when someone steps foot inside these magical gates, this becomes a world of pure bliss. They might as well prescribe a fucking trip to Orlando right next to your Zoloft.
Let’s avoid the obvious targets of mass consumerism. Hey if I could sell as many t-shirts as Mickey Mouse, I would. I’m going for the throat here. The ’oh I feel like a kid again’ shit. Everyone does this, cause everyone’s a fucking zombie. You know - you *DIDN’T* have to stop playing with Barbies or Legos. You *DIDN’T* have to stop jumping on the bed. You chose to. You chose to grow up. You chose to fucking get a job, get involved in a relationship, pay bills, drink coffee, and be god damn moody. Fuck, when I walk into Wal-Mart I still shoot straight for the toy aisle. A six inch action figure of Captain America is still fucking COOL and if I didn’t enjoy eating so much, I’d fucking still be buying them. I still watch cartoons, I still like my ice cream covered in chocolate and gummy bears, and I still think the local news is boring.
And let’s not forget, the whole time you were a ’kid’ you just couldn’t wait to get older and do all the things grown ups do. Drive a car? FUCK YEAH. Drink loads of beer? HELL YEAH. Drive a car and drink loads of beer? FUCKING HELL YEAH. Look what you’ve moved on to: you have the money and you have the freedom to do whatever you want. You can god damn live at Disney World if you wanted to. Everybody gushes like a twelve year old at a Hanson concert when they go to that big budget amusement park, but when they go to Los Angeles they complain that everyone is fake. WHAT. THE. FUCK. You are knee deep in fake at Disney Land, and its the god damn happiest you’ll ever be? I’m not knocking Walt Disney’s grand vision of bulldozing miles of delicious Orange orchards for a plastic castle. To this day, Space Mountain is the shit and the girl walking around pretending to be Cinderella is hot.
So yeah if the pressures of being all ’grown up’ are grinding you down day by day, interrupt your medication of pills and alcohol with a trip to the beautiful Magic Kingdom. It’ll be like Daddy never slipped his hand up your skirt that one time.
(By the way, he *did* tell all his friends about it)