There is something about Kennywood, more than any other amusement park, that triggers something in my head and makes every single thing so fucking funny to me. I was talking to Barb about this at work the other day, and as an example I said, “Remember that one time I went to Kennywood and Janna hit her head on the train—-”
“—yeah, and you thought it was the funniest thing in the world,” Barb* finished for me with a sigh. Granted, Janna can injure herself anywhere—on a farm, on a boat, at Planned Parenthood—and it’s the funniest thing in the world to me, but when it happens at Kennywood? Bitch, you best hold up your splatter shield because I’m about to piss all over your shoes.
*(I have to namedrop Barb to get her to read my blog.)
Being at Kennywood is like being a kid again and having a parent nagging you to grow up (Henry) but not giving a single fuck because hello, you’re at motherfucking Kennywood, eating square ice cream cones and making people ride on things that they really truly don’t want to ride but you just keep whittling away at their resolve like it’s a piece of driftwood about to resemble their dejected face.
And I’ll tell you, I need to document every moment of it, because someday, maybe years from now, maybe next winter, I’m going to be depressed about something probably Jonny Craig-related and I’m going to want to have something to cheer me up, and since Henry probably will still be too cheap to buy me an engagement ring or a wheelchair from 1897, I’m going to start fishing around my blog archives, looking for happy memories that might make me LOL through the tears.
And then I’ll come across this picture that Laura took of Chooch and me on the Kangaroo, right after Chooch gave me a disgusted look because we had to switch sides so I wouldn’t turn my son into an adolescent pancake with the sheer force of my mammoth body against his, and we were sitting behind a picture perfect family who collectively cooed “WheeeEEEEEE!” every time their car went over the kangaroo jump, and Chooch and I mocked them openly and they probably definitely were aware of this, and my hair was all damp and kinky from the rain. And I will momentarily forget the bain of my sadness because now I’m reliving happy memories, and this is why true bloggers blog, people!
On the Whip, I kept screaming, “ENJOOOOOOOOY YOUR WWWWWIDE!!” in an obnoxious Elderly-Jewish-Lady-Talking-Like-A-Baby voice and it was making Chooch laugh so hard, so that made me do it even more obnoxiously, like every time we’d be about to be whipped around the bend, I would cry out, “Oh! Oh! Oh! ENJOOOOOOY IT!!!!!!!” So then we kept saying it to each other all day and Henry would just look at us quizzically and frown, because god forbid he’s not part of the inside joke. (Is he ever?)
Henry had to ride something with me, oh noes.
Thankfully, the Thunderbolt is one of two rollercoasters at Kennywood that doesn’t have a stupid camera waiting to take the World’s Worst Photo of you. I don’t know what it is about those things, but they make me look a million times worse than I thought I actually look. I mean, I feel as though I didn’t look too bad when I left the house that day; I brushed my hair, put on makeup, wore things that weren’t ill-fitting or made of Lycra from the Tila Tequila Collection, yet somehow I look like Throw Mama From the Train in every one of those photos, like my body is just a mound of fat and cellulite and pale, sweaty skin that was poured into a mold loosely based off of Honey Boo Boo’s mama, stuffed into a rollercoaster seat and then topped with the head of bulldog, the face of which will somehow managed to be pulled in three different directions while the mouth is opened in Ready-To-Receive-Penis-stance at the precise moment the flash goes off.
Ta-da, here’s your $15 proof that Weight Watchers ain’t doing jack shit!
Fuck it, let’s go have ice cream!
Laura is having the wrong ice cream.
Henry was very adamant about me not capturing a photo of him deep-throating his ice cream cone andkept making threats to post retaliation photos of me on Facebook. Oh, OK.
Meanwhile, Chooch is like, “Did someone say pictures? Bring it!” He’s ready with a pulled-face within seconds of me pointing the camera at him. It’s a wonder his school pictures don’t look like this, too.
HAHAHAHAHA. That’s some ferocious cone-sucking. It’s like he’s fishing for bone marrow. Get it, girl!
One of my Top 5 moments of the day was when Chooch, Laura and I were in line for the Auto Race, which was probably the only line we actually stood in all day, aside from the Phantom’s Revenge clusterfuck. The Auto Race is like a Kennywood institution at this point and all the parents want to ride on it with their kids while telling them about what Kennywood was like back in the day when bitches used to wear ball gowns and get down in the dance hall.
My earliest summation of Kennywood is that everyone used to wear fanny packs and neon everything, but unless it involves me taking out a line of credit so Chooch can play all of the games, he doesn’t give a shit about my Kennywood memories.
So instead, we spent the duration of the ride laughing our fucking asses off at Laura, who realized at the very last minute that not only was she going to have to ride alone, but she was going to have to sit in the back of the car, because the driver seats are designed to accommodate children and Ethiopian supermodel asses only, thanks, now please take the backseat.
Laura’s invisible chauffeur, also known as “air,” probably gave her a smoother ride than my driver, that’s for sure.
Seriously, I went to high school with a bitch who was modeled after Laffing Sal. Her parents should consider that a success.
The train ride was kind of like the “time out” of the day. It was good to sit down and decompress and make gagging noises when we passed the river.
I hate the fucking river.
Dum-dum Daddy didn’t want to go on the train because he’s such a crybaby and so scared to go on it so he decides to sit on the bench and hold mommy’s and my drinks but then he DRANK IT ALL. — Chooch
Henry sitting alone made Chooch and I crack the fuck up, but then the train ride started and Laura was all, “Shh! I’m trying to hear what the man is saying!” God, nothing important! Just historical facts about the park, Laura! Why don’t you just go to a library if you want to learn!
Anyway, Laura shushing us worked, because we spent the rest of the train ride moderately well-behaved.
MORE LATER! OH BOY!