My brain needs to reset itself so here, have a filler post. There are also no pictures of Henry in this one, because as he said earlier, “Haven’t you word-raped me enough over the last two days?” TOUCHÉ, MOTHERFUCKER.
Honestly was about to scratch a Will on my leg with a paint chip from this sad, downtrodden Paratrooper—it was such a janky ride! On one hand, I was like, “At least if we’re flung from this shoddy piece of mechanics, we have a 50/50 chance of hitting the lake and surviving” and then on the other hand I was like, “EW I DON’T WANT TO TOUCH THAT GROSS WATER!”
I’ve only ridden on one set of Paratroopers more run down looking than this one, and that was at the Washington County Fair.
A fresh coat of paint goes a long way, Indiana Beach. Just pretend like each umbrella is one of Tammy Faye Bakker’s eyelids. Go wild!
Faces of Paratrooper survivors.
That guy has what we call 1950s Indiana Swag.
I love the Tilt-a-Whirl so much but not on days where elves are spooning viscous scoops of oil from my facial pores to use as liliputian love-stick lubricant. Let me spell it out for it: IT WAS HOT AND HUMID. I can’t ride spinny rides when I’m in the throes of heat stroke. But Chooch rode this three times in a row. God, good for you, Chooch. Why don’t you just write a song about it on your dumb keyboard, ugh.
Obligatory ice cream cone shot. Can I get any more predictable.
Seriously, these guys. I was obsessed. Also note: this was pretty much how crowded it was all day until late afternoon when the water park mysteriously closed down and a horde of Indiana’s finest invaded the park like beached whales.
Pale, so pale, very pale beached whales.
This is not where I got my ice cream.
I haven’t even finished writing about this park yet and I’m already trying to con Henry into taking us to another one. I’M NEVER SATISFIED. Just ask the doves when they cry.