Old Dude on the Crazy Mouse, holla!
Usually when we go to county fairs or amusement parks, Henry declines getting on rides in lieu of standing off to the side, looking like a regular woman’s purse-holding creeper. But I guess this past Sunday, Henry really wanted to remember what it’s like to have all of the fun, so he actually allowed the elderly woman in the ticket booth to slap a ride-all-day wristband on his arm.
Either that or he just really wanted to feel the breeze cruisin’ through his McNichol-locks.
Me: So, which is it?
Henry, mocking me with a Santa laugh: I wanted to have all of the fun, of course.
He complained about neck pain a lot during and after the Crazy Mouse, which is such an old person thing to do.
Me: Seriously, how did it feel to actually be on a ride for once, and not ogling underaged girls with a twitch of your Selleck ‘stache?
Henry: Seriously, I’m not answering a question right this minute.
(Oh, that’s because his nose is in his phone, ogling underage girls with a twitch of his Selleck ‘stache on Facebook.)
Me: What was your favorite ride there, and don’t say ‘the ride home’?
Henry, in a tone that implies I’m a fool for not knowing: The Crazy Mouse.
Me: So, would you say that the Crazy Mouse is your Wacky Worm?
Henry, using the tactic of saying whatever I want to hear in an effort to appease me faster than ear-fucking me with Jonny Craig records: Yeah, I guess.
When it comes to bumper cars, I ususally tend to sit that one out and let Henry and Chooch do their thing. But on this day, I was feeling all sorts of female empowerment and decided what better way to celebrate my day as a mother than by getting all sorts of vehicular homicide on the sperm receptacle that knocked me up in the first place? I immediately regretted the decision when we ascended the steps and got into a line which was turnstiled inside an area the size of a walk-in closet (a regular person’s walk-in closet, not Kimora Lee Simmon’s walk-in closet; bitch, watch an episode of “Cribs” now and then, and you’d know). It was so cramped up in there that I had to stand stockstill, with my arms straight down my sides to avoid my white bread city flesh accidentally chafing against red neck farmhand brawn. Remember in my last Delgrosso’s editorial where I expounded on the social classes of its average patron? Well, it was here, in line for the bumper cars, that all my hyperbolic observations manifested themselves into an actual breathing and stinking family. Imagine the TV show Roseanne, but if the Connors lived in hills that have eyes and not Illinois; marry that with People of Wal-Mart; and then bathe them in liquid cabbage, body odor, vomit and spritz them with eau d’ petting zoo and then plant them right behind the judgmental girl with the over-sensitive olfactory system.
My senses were all a’prickle. Even HENRY was like, “What the fuck is behind me, I’m too afraid to look, here use my periscope.” The Dan Connor of the family was wearing a billowing t-shirt with the arms cut off to allow for adequate stench expulsion from his putrid pits. One of the younger boys was a true ginger and I felt extreme sorrow for him. Also a little bit of disgust. The two pre-teen girls were dressed unintentionally whorish and one of them will probably fail a pregnancy test within the coming weeks while the other loses her virginity to a saw horse.
But the worst was by far the mom. Totally Roseanne Barr if Roseanne Barr was hatched from an egg under a troll bridge, she did nothing but fucking HOLLER at her family and repeat over and over again, “WE’S GON NEED 12 CARS YA’LL CUZ BRITNEY WANTS TO RIDE BY HERSELF! 12 CARS!” and it’s like, “OK! We get it! You can fucking count! You can put the abacus away now!” but really I wanted to know who (or what) she was counting, because I only saw 5 people in their party.
I think the bigger question is why were they spending money on Delgrosso’s admission and not TOILETRIES?
And then one of them, either the mom or dad, emitted the nastiest, wettest fart I’ve ever smelt, and I grew up with two younger brothers. A stew of John Wayne Gacy’s corpse pit, the Jersey Shore smoosh room and sauerkraut might have emitted a comparable fecal bouquet. It was so terrible that I actually CRIED OUT LOUD, DRY-HEAVED and made a big production of covering my nose and mouth.
We ended up getting the last two cars, so at least I was able to ram the fuck out of Henry’s backend without having to hold my nose. (In this case, anyway.)
Me: How good do you feel about yourself when you’re amongst the riffraff at Delgrosso’s, be honest? You probably feel hot like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. Or at the very least, Michael Landon in Highway to Heaven*. TOTAL SELF ESTEEM BOOST, right?
(* I imagine this is someone Henry emulated in the 80s after his Erik Estrada infatuation fizzled.)
Henry: I don’t understand the question.
(OK. Maybe Henry isn’t that much better than the signature Delgrosso’s patron.)
Henry actually won something! A stuffed shark that his mom kept calling a whale the next day, much to Chooch’s chagrin.
Chooch didn’t understand why his hands weren’t sparking when he stuck them out of the Crazy Mouse car. How fucking precious.
Me: How close did that random redneck resemble Jesus Christ, I mean, Jonny Craig?
Henry: I don’t know, I never really looked at him.
Me: I’ve totally been squeezing my eyes shut and pretending you’re him, just so you know. Hey, speaking of Jonny Craig, what is your favorite Emarosa song?
Henry, before I even finished the question: I don’t have one.
(Well, he better get one, otherwise it’s going to be one excruciating wedding dance for him – OH WAIT WE’RE NOT GETTING MARRIED OH HO HO.)
There were girls in line with us, which explains the bewildered smile.
Henry didn’t want to go on the Swing Buggies until he heard Journey’s “Wheel in the Sky” playing, and then was suddenly all stoked. God, imagine if it had been Ted Nugent. He’d have plowed down girls in wheelchairs to get in line.
Me: Are you sure you don’t want to finally confess about what really happened that night at the Nugent show in 19OMGYROLD?
Henry: OH SHUT UP! GOD!
This is really what Chooch looks like. I photoshop all his other pictures.
If there are maps, Henry will read them.
Me: What are your favorite kinds of maps to read, and how badly do you want to have sex on top a stack of atlases?
Henry: WHAT? WHAT KIND OF QUESTION IS THAT? I DON’T HAVE A FAVORITE KIND OF MAP TO READ. Murmuring: What’s my favorite kind of map to read. You’re so fucked up.
Me: [reiterating the atlas part of the question and flinching even though this part of the exposé is now being conducted via telephone — you don’t think I actually get him to answer everything in one sitting, do you? We’re going on FIVE DAYS NOW.]
Henry: WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? I’m going to kill you.
Me: Imagine that your daydreams of becoming a Universal Hemorrhoid Ambassador came true.
Henry: A universal what?!
Henry, after making me repeat it again because he doesn’t understand my laughing slur: I don’t understand the question.
Me: OMG Henry, how adorable are me and Chooch? (Answer wisely and this can be your last question.)
Henry, looks at me suspiciously: Very?
Jesus Christ, now I can’t wait for our annual Father’s Day romp in Kennywood!