Can you believe I went to an amusement park and have very little to say about it? It’s not even that I didn’t enjoy myself at Waldameer last weekend, but I think it’s because I tried to be “smart” by taking some preventative Dramamine even though I have never really had a need for such measures. Sure, as I get older, I have to space the spinny rides; no more jumping off and getting right back on the Tilt-a-Whirl. And sometimes I might have to have an extended stay on a bench while I try to kick the cold sweats. But my motion sickness has never been so bad that I couldn’t ride something.
But still, I took some fucking Dramamine and it proceeded to completely ruin my day. I was so tired and irritable, it was unbelievable. And when I went on the Ali Baba, after harassing Chooch until he finally broke down and rode it with me, I spent the whole ride swallowing bile. Chooch, on the other hand, ended up loving it.
The main reason I wanted to go to Waldameer was to ride through the Whacky Shack. I love dark rides more than roller coasters, and this one didn’t disappoint. It was like being transported back to the ’60s with all the psychedelia and old school drug store Halloween props. I loved it so much. And I should note that the line for this ride, by mid-afternoon, was longer than the lines for the two wooden coasters. Erie peeps know what’s up.
I think this was my favorite part. As we rode through each door, the sound of a beating heart played above us.
I wanted to live there! Look how stupid Henry looks.
Stupid Henry looks stupid.
Across from the Whacky Shack was another dark ride called Pirate’s Cove. It was a walk-thru and had the unmistakable dank stench of your Aunt Martha’s basement. Oh, it was like getting a whiff of my childhood and I loved it! During one part that had us walking through a serpentined queue in a black-lit slanted room, I said that I thought it felt familiar to me.
“Yeah, because the Noah’s Ark at Kennywood used to have a room like this,” Henry said ruefully. I can’t believe that it’s been so long since stupid Kennywood desecrated the best dark ride in the world that I couldn’t even remember that. In fact, so many parts of the Pirate’s Cove seemed similar after that realization, that we wondered if the two were made by the same company.
Oh God, don’t I wish.
I kept seeing signs for French waffles, which sounded absolutely delightful, because I like waffles and I also like French.
French furries filming salad dressing porn.
Then I did that thing where I get all pouty and spoiled-bratty when I say I’m hungry and Henry has the nerve to ask me what I want when he should KNOW WHAT I WANT since I’ve done nothing but say things like, “I wonder what the fuck a French waffle is?” all goddamn day. Fuck!
So I finally got my damn French waffle with a generous coating of powdered sugar.
“Go sit down and eat that,” Henry said patronizingly, and just to be a walking Fuck You! montage, I thrust the waffle to my mouth and bit down faster than I could realize that the waffle wasn’t actually as soft and doughy as I imagined, but crisp and thin and the pressure of my aggressive mastication presented quite a pickle when it caused the other end of the fake breakfast staple to flip up and smack me in the mouth, sending puffs of powdered sugar ALL OVER MY FACE, HAIR AND CLOTHING.
There was that incredibly awkward moment where it felt like everyone inside Waldameer had stopped dead in their tracks and were mocking me along with the entire country of France.
“I told you to sit the fuck down before eating that,” Henry sighed. “Good for you.”
It totally wasn’t even worth it and I started whining about how I should have just stuck with funnel cake and no, I can’t just go ahead and get some funnel cake because I’m too fat, how dare you, Henry.
If you happen to walk past my house and hear me mercilessly heckling all of the French athletes in every Olympic event, know it’s perpetuated by a waffle.
Henry broke his “no spinny rides” policy to ride the Tilt-a-Whirl and acted like a goddamn hero about it for the rest of the day. OK, Henry. We get it. You were in the SERVICE and can withstand a slight brain scrambling. Jesus Christ.
(Speaking of Henry being in the SERVICE, I was watching the Olympics the other night which is basically all I do now—be thankful if you don’t follow me on Twitter—and it taught me that the invasion of Grenada was real & not just some SERVICE story that Henry made up to look cool.)
(Speaking some more of Henry being in the SERVICE, I’m trying to get him to find his dog tags so I can wear them ironically.)
Chooch rode the bumper cars with Henry, so he had a successful experience this time and will probably never ever want to ride with his asshole mom again.
Oh, yeah! Speaking of not wanting to ride with his asshole mom, when we were in line for the most boring wooden roller coaster of all time (the Comet), Chooch was very vocal about how he wanted to ride with DADDY, not MOMMY and he kept saying it over and over again to the point where I was sure all the people around us were beginning to interpret that as, “I don’t want to ride with Mommy because her heroin needle always pokes me when I sit too close.”
Just utterly embarrassing.
So when it was our turn, I ran all the way to the front seat figuring that if Chooch really wanted to ride in the front like he kept saying, he would have no choice but to sit with Dreaded MOMMY. But that little shit was like, “Oh. No thanks then. I guess I’ll just sit in the SECOND SEAT with Daddy.”
What a jerk. AND ON MY BIRTHDAY WEEKEND! (Don’t worry, I said that at least 87 times that day.)
There was another coaster there called Ravine Flyer which was made from some of the most active ingredients in evil. I rode it alone because Chooch wasn’t tall enough, and I was super anxious because there was a sign there that said something about all single riders congregating to the middle and finding other lone riders to pair up with, like some strange roller coaster singles mixer, and what if I couldn’t find some other pathetic single rider? As luck would have it, there was some older man a few people behind me, so we ended up standing together in one of the queues.
But then, when the next coaster pulled up, I got into the far right seat and he didn’t get on after me! I was so offended that this piece of shit stranger didn’t want to ride with me. I know I’m Chubs City, but I don’t have fucking lesions, for Christ’s sake.
What a fucker.
And that roller coaster ended up being a major son of a bitch, so it would have been nice to have had a warm, fat body next to me to hold on to, that’s all I’m saying, asshole.
Really, that coaster was terrible. It might have been the roughest, fastest ride I took on wood, and yes I meant it that way. I didn’t even scream or put my arms up — I just sat there in my seat, completely stunned.
When Henry and Chooch were in line for the Whacky Shack, I got a text from Henry that said, “Jonny’s strung out near the entrance.” I almost died when I saw this guy, because he does kind of look like The Jonny Craig DelGrosso’s Doppelganger. Oh Jonny Craig, how you haunt me everywhere I go.
Then we stood in line to get lemonade behind some dumb bitch who apparently ordered an extra-colossal lemonade for an entire Girl Scout Troop, I don’t fucking know, but it seemed like the poor apathetic Waldameer kids in the little refreshment oven just kept churning out one giant cup after another, like Groundhog Day Part 2: Perpetual Refreshments. I kept thinking, “Why are we still standing in this line?” but I was too Dramamined to do anything about it.
Well, would you look at that. I guess I had things to write about Waldameer after all.