If you look closely, you can see the exorcised demon expelling from Chooch’s gaping maw.

After Chooch’s heat meltdown, the rest of the day was pretty awesome. We even got him to eat some more!

Eating a corn dog and not being a dickhead.

Buying a lemonade and still being a dickhead.

Meanwhile, Laura was going on and on about finding the vendor building and I was like, “I have no interest in that, but fine.” So we found it and of course Chooch went straight for the booth stacked with breakable merchandise. Mike and Laura were standing closer to him than I was so I figured I could jsut run really fast if he broke anything and leave them to clean up the mess.

And then the perfectly-timed storm began. (Literally.) I had little interest in the wares being shilled beneath the metal structure, but at least we had shelter!

While Henry and I were standing near the doorway, watching the rain, a middle-aged man started making small talk with us. The next thing I knew, I was answering his inquiry about whether or not I have ever visited Williamsburg with a very thoughtful response of, “You know, I have, but it has been a REALLY long time.” And just like that, he had me hook, line and sinker. Or whatever that phrase is. I’m not a fisherman.

I quickly noticed that he was sitting in front of a huge advertisement panel for some resort in Williamsburg, Virginia and really, what the fuck interest do I have in Williamsb—oh wait, BUSCH GARDENS, MOTHAFUCKA. So we’re chatting it up about some restaurant called Captain George’s that has the best seafood buffet in the history of public gluttony and Henry’s being asked in five different ways if he fishes or golfs and I realized that, oh shit, this is some timeshare bullshit, Henry’s not going to go for that.

But Henry was still standing there. And if Henry’s still standing there, well, maybe there’s a future vacation in this.

And the more this dude babbled on about Busch Gardens and all of the things within driving distance of Williamsburg (because do I look like a history buff?), the more my eyes began to light up with hope and opportunity.

Then his partner, this mouthy little troll bitch, interjected and granted, she was actually telling us about important things and you know, showing us pictures of the resort and explaining the free incentives, but damn, she was annoying.

“Did you show them pictures of the resort?” she asked the guy.

“No.”

“Did you tell them about the Busch Garden ticket upgrades?”

“No.”

“Did you tell them the price?”

“No.”

And this went on for a few more seconds until she finally realized she had to back up and give us the whole presentation. When she held up the Captain George menu, the other dude spoke up and said, “Oh, I already told them about that!” and then he smiled proudly and shook his head, probably thinking about the last time he shucked an oyster up in Captain George’s.

Then Laura and Mike drifted on over at the perfect moment and we wound up with A FREE UPGRADE TO A TWO BEDROOM COTTAGE THAT’S WHAT’S UP! Thank you, Mike and Laura, for standing next to us right when this broad was trying to close a deal! You are welcome to come shack up in our complimentary second bedroom upgrade!

So, for what it would cost for one night, we get 4 days and 3 nights in this beautiful resort and all Henry has to do is suffer through a 90 minute time share presentation while Chooch and I go swimming or maybe play MINI GOLF, because THEY HAVE MINI GOLF ON THE GROUNDS.

I was waiting for Henry to snort and say, “Fuck no.” But instead, he looked at me and said, “Whatever you want to do.” You know what I want to do? I want to go to fucking Williamsburg, bitches! So that’s what we will be doing sometime in the next two years, but I’m thinking next August because we wanted to take a road trip to Georgia anyway (OCTAVIA. JENNY. YOU ARE DOOMED.) and this was like a sign from the county fair rain gods.

But do you see what I mean? Why is Henry being so nice!? He’s either cheating on me or hustling molly.

I’m really excited to go to Captain George’s too.  I mean, how can I not go there now!?

Afterward, Laura and I were about to ride the Zipper when some bitch PUKED on it.

So they had to shut the ride down for maintenance, and by that I mean they had to fetch a hose.

So instead of waiting, we had  possibly the worst idea of the day and decided to ride the Orbiter instead. I know I’ve been on this ride before, I feel just as recently as the last two years, but I don’t remember it dropping me back off to earth with a thick film of terror upon on my face. Perhaps if I had paid attention while previously loitering in that vicinity throughout the day, I might have noticed that the primary direction of this fucker is BACKWARD which is never a good look for my visage. Needless to say, I walked—-nay, staggered—around looking like I was wearing Cover Girl foundation in Green Around the Gills from their new infirmary line.

Post-Orbiter nausea models. OMG I’m getting sick all over again just looking at this. I honestly don’t know how I carried on after this.

Oh wait, yeah I do….

PUMPKIN FUNNEL CAKE, YOU GUYS. Pumpkin funnel cake. Good lord. I don’t even typically care for regular funnel cake! But this was the fucking shit, like warm squirts of half-baked pumpkin donut on a paper plate with some kind of maple glaze on it. I have been trying to get invited to pumpkin funnel cake dinner parties ever since, but I think this is something that doesn’t exist.

Someone buy Henry a fucking funnel cake machine thing!

Chooch put these little clown fuckers to work to the point where I felt obliged to give him money to donate. My favorite part was when he went back for the third time and said, “My mom wants something scary.” So they made a bumblebee for him to give me. Then Laura wanted one so Chooch went back and was like, “Now this other bitch wants a bumblebee too, good job.”

Ugh, this is the ride that almost took me out as soon as we arrived that day! Fuck you, Rock Star.

Other highlights include Chooch flipping the fuck out on Bozo, the asshole clown who perches in the dunk tank, shouting disparaging remarks to people as they walk past. I remember last year, I was there with a temporary friend* and Bozo made her cry. I was all, “OMG he sucks” but in hindsight, I’m like “Fuck yes, Team Bozo.”

*(I dislike fake bitches.)

Anyway, Chooch ran up to him at one point and told him to fuck off. I was kind of hoping he would say something back to Chooch, because it would have been pretty fun to watch Chooch’s wrath open up the gates to Hell. But I guess Bozo must not be allowed to yell at kids. I’d make a pretty piss poor Bozo, then.

While standing in line for the Ferris wheel, we were treated with not one, but TWO dunkings of Bozo! It was sublime. However, my Bozo highlight was when some dude whaled a ball at the target only for it to ricochet back and hit his little girl right in the head. Damn, dude. You let your little girl take hits for you?

By the time the night was over, we were all lobsterfied and exhausted, but (with the exception of Chooch’s meltdown) I think it’s safe to say we all had a good time. I’m glad Laura and Mike got to experience it before they move! :(

***

The next morning, Henry woke up and said, “Who the fuck goes to the county fair and spends [undisclosed amount]?!” I panicked for a second, thinking that he was going to try to sell this amazing vacation package to one of the dicks at his job, but then I showed him videos from the resort and he calmed down.

“That is a pretty good deal,” he murmured. All I know is, we have unlimited years of non-vacationing to make up for, so look out Williamsburg and wherever else I become suddenly obsessed with for no real reason.

Chooch watching Chiodos for the first time!

The other day, I was scrolling through Instagram when I saw that the Warped Tour account posted a picture of one of the Warped roadies holding up a little girl, maybe around 9 or 10, during the Sleeping With Sirens set. I thought it was so cute, and so did most of the other commenters. However, there were some people enraged that people would bring children to Warped Tour. One of the angriest commenters was a seventeen year old girl! Seriously, shouldn’t you be writing in your diary about blowing the football team and not caring about people taking their kids to Warped Tour?

She went on to list all of the reasons why it was a horrible idea: the alcohol, the violence, the crowds. A lot of the points she made immediately made me think, “Wait, doesn’t this shit go on at sporting events too? People take BABIES to those!” And then it made me wonder how many people were quietly judging me and questioning my decision to take my own kid to Warped Tour, so I began to get more mad at these comments.

In all of the years I’ve been going to Warped Tour, I have encountered very little violence — though I have seen people get hurt in the pit. But…am I going to let my seven-year-old son into a fucking mosh pit? I mean, I’m kind of dumb, but really? For the most part, we stood near the side of the stage, on the periphery of the crowd. Other times, we were sitting under the amphitheater or on the hillside.

And maybe there might be a lot of drinking happening in the parking lot, but inside the venue, I see very little of it. First of all, it’s a primarily young crowd. Second, who can afford to get drunk at concert venues like that? Jesus!

Not impressed with Architects (UK), even though I was. :(

Yeah, it gets crowded—around the stages. It’s not like the entire venue is one concentrated mass of writhing bodies. However, I have seen pictures and videos from other venues and it looks way different than ours here in Pittsburgh. At First Niagara Pavilion, there are plenty of places to go if you need to get away from the crowds.

In one of her many scathing comments, this girl said she would call Child Services next time she sees someone at Warped Tour with a young kid, and that she wasn’t even allowed to attend until she was 16. So I think the real issue she has here is that her parents suck and she was probably too busy listening to Kidz Bop when she was Chooch’s age to even know that Warped Tour existed. But Chooch has grown up to this music! He talks about Craig Owens, Vic Fuentes, Kellin Quinn and Jonny Craig like they’re family members. And now he’s obsessed with Oli Sykes after seeing Bring Me the Horizon. It’s things like this that make my heart swell as a mom.

But the Instagram dissenters are right about one thing: Warped Tour is not a kid-centric event. Yes, there is swearing (oh noes) and other inappropriate things (like a tent handing out Trojan condoms), but that comes with the territory. Your kid can walk down a grocery store aisle and see condoms, or step outside and hear the neighbors swearing at each other. Or go to a family reunion and see people acting like drunk assholes! At the end of the day, Warped Tour is about the music, and Chooch walked away with new favorite bands and a greater sense of understanding for ones he already knew about. I think it all depends on the kid. I certainly wouldn’t take Amy Sue in her Laura Ashley dress.

Henry and I had discussed taking Chooch with us in years past, but ultimately decided that he was too young. (Yes, we used this thing called “discretion”! Imagine that!) This year, Chooch expressed interest in going and we felt he could handle it, and if he couldn’t, it was agreed that Henry would just leave with him and they would come back and get me when it was over. I’m not going to force my kid to stay somewhere like that, all day and all night, if he hates it. (I only do that to Henry.) And it’s not like I’m some fucking minivan-driving soccer mom who just woke up one day and thought, “I’m gonna take my small child to that Warped Tour thing. Maybe Maroon 5 will be there.” I GO EVERY YEAR. I know what to expect. I have occasionally seen other people bring little kids and it always makes me miss Chooch. It’s a long day to be without him!

We’re not bad parents, and we’re not idiots. I would never do anything to put Chooch in danger, and if HENRY is on board with it, you know it will probably be OK. I mean, it’s Henry,  you guys. Do you realize how many times I would have electrocuted or poisoned myself in the past had it not been for him intervening? I trust Henry. (Mostly.)

And guess what guys? Everything was fine! Chooch had FUN and is already talking about next year. Everyone there, from Chiodos fans to bands to Warped staff, were so nice to him. And do you know was the worst thing that almost happened? Chooch almost walked into someone who was hula hooping at one of the merch tents, but some bro stepped up and said, “Whoa little dude, I don’t want you to get hurt!” and steered Chooch in a different direction.

A hula hoop, you guys.

So if some dumb teenager wants to call Child Services next year when they see my kid having a fucking blast at Warped Tour, well, good luck.

That time Henry accidently tried to order euthanasia through a window instead of lemonade.

I think this was when Henry was looking up the number for a suicide hotline.

Chooch, eating ice cream and not yet having his temporal lobe fisted by sun rays.

I wanted to see what Henry saw through his glasses. Surprisingly, it wasn’t the black and white landscape of sadness factories, frowns billowing in toxic tufts from smokestacks, like I imagined it would be, so who knows why he’s always frowning.

I made Laura “try her hand” at a fake cow udder, only to learn that she lived on a dairy farm for awhile, so take THAT, Erin R. Kelly.

And then right after that, Chooch duped her into going on his favorite thing in all of Carnival Land—the stupid obstacle course for kids thing. Except that Laura didn’t realize it would entail crawling and climbing, culminating in an awkward slide back to adulthood.

“Laura, what will you do now that you’ve conquered the Under the Sea Adventure?”

“I’m going to buy NEW KNEECAPS!”

I too lug around full-sized cartons of iced coffee with me when I know I’m going to be braising beneath the sun at the county fair.

PLEASE TELL ME HER STUPID WRISTBAND SAYS YOLO. I know, you’re right. Of course it does. She probably got it off that high school kid who fucks her for beer.

Her eyebrow piercing looked like a disgusting skin growth, btw.

Sometime during the Marvelous Mutts show (shelter dogs catching frisbees is one of the few things that will make me unironically say “AWWWWW!” along with everyone else like we’re the Full House studio audience), we realized that—holy fuck—our kid is like REALLY SUPER HOT. Henry was forcing water into Chooch’s mouth, but Chooch kept rejecting it because he enjoys being miserable and making us RUE THE DAY. By the time the show was over, he was in full-blown meltdown (almost literally, really) mode and it was, how do you say REALLY FUCKING EMBARRASSING in parent-tongue?

He hurled his water bottle for no reason, I mean fucking plow-drived that shit into the ground. And I’m pretty sure he kicked Henry at one point too, which is like the last thing you want to do to Henry when he is the only one who brought a wallet.

“He needs to eat,” I kept assuring Henry, who was hissing, “I’M TAKING THE SON OF A BITCH HOME.” I mean, yes, I wanted to throttle Chooch’s sweaty neck too, but I also DID NOT WANT TO LEAVE THE FAIR. Like, not at all!! I’m sure none of this was awkward or annoying for Laura and Mike.

I was trying to coax Chooch to pick something to eat when some girls inside one of the food trailers chimed in and took my side, which only pissed him off more. One of them even offered to let him stick his head in a bucket of ice but Chooch stomped off angrily. I kind of wanted to stick my head in the bucket, but I had to run off after my child before he Hulked out of his clothing and started smashing faces.

Hunger + Heat Stroke + 7-Year-Old Child = the perfect storm of Sybil-esque emotions. Newsflash to non-parents and new parents alike: KIDS DO NOT GIVE A SHIT WHO’S AROUND. There’s no modesty here. If they feel like cuttin’ a bitch, then bitch gon’ get cut. They don’t care if “people are looking!” In fact, most of these little assholes thrive on that! YES, WATCH US PROVE THAT OUR PARENTS HAVE NO AUTHORITY!

About to tell you to fuck yourself in 18 different languages right before auditioning for Lead Fucker-Child in the Village of the Damned remake.

Somehow, I managed to talk Chooch into eating roasted corn on the cob, of all things. I found a table where we could sit and get pelted by blistering UV rays while Chooch gnawed angrily on his mood-stabilizing corn-rod, Laura and Mike pretended to not think they were in the presence of a royal dick-child, I tried not to cry the tears of a failing parent, and Henry wandered off to supposedly get me food but I half-expected to find our car missing from the parking lot. Meanwhile, Chooch realized how close he was sitting to me so he got up and moved to a table where he could sit alone, which, believe me, I didn’t mind. Until he turned around and started sobbing—no really, it was a full-blown, red-faced cryfest—about how I told everyone he cried on a ride two weeks prior at Canobie.

Wow. I’ll accept those Parent of the Year nominations any day now.

So, I sat there and ate my crabby patty (irony, you devil, you) (and yes, this means Henry actually came back!) while letting Chooch blow off more steam by crying about how terrible I am. Henry even begrudgingly bought him a strawberry smoothie (not out of love, but more out of hospital trip prevention) and that seemed to give him just enough sustenance to turn off the Dick Switch. Crisis (and truncated fair trip) averted! I even managed to get Henry to buy me a cute little owl purse, which means he wasn’t really as angry as he wanted everyone to believe. God, he tries to be so hardcore.

And then the storm clouds came rolling in. Thanks, Chooch.

I think it’s worth noting that when I was typing the title to this post, my phone changed “Butler” to “hurler” which should be a synonym since Laura and I wanted to hurl all day.

Hey guess what? This is going to be mostly photos. Enjoy it while it lasts, k? Because the next 8700 installments of the fucking fair will probably break your eyeballs.

Just kidding. I’m trying to be more Cliff’s Notes-y so that I can get caught up and resume writing an entire tome based on a 20-minute trolley ride to work. Or a fruit salad. You guys miss my fruit salad posts, admit it.

If I had to pick only three things to do every summer, the Big Butler Fair would definitely make the cut (Warped Tour and birthday bullshit would be the other two). This is the premier carnival in Western Pennsylvania, you guys. IT HAS ALL OF THE RIDES! And a bunch of other shit that I don’t care about, but other people do, like free country concerts or something?

Henry even busted out a brand new blank t-shirt for the day! I asked him what color he would consider it and he said, “Turquoise-y green.”

Henry called forth the storm clouds with a secret combination of “left moustache twitch-frown-right moustache twitch-sigh.”

“Mmmm, how about we just go with teal?” I suggested. Someone’s getting a motherfucking color wheel for Christmas, boyyyyy*.

*(Please say this in the key of Vanilla Ice.)

Laura and Mike met us out there and I was excited because they were Big Butler virgins. And Laura will ride things with me, which almost wound up being a non-issue considering the first thing I went on with Chooch made me so sick, I had to lay down in the grass afterward. It was the Rock Star and it was only one of those rides where you sit in a row and then the thing moves back and forth and then all the way around. I apparently can’t be spun in that direction anymore, because this is the same sort of ride that knocked me out last summer at Waldameer. And the whole time, I had Chooch next to me, droning on and about the camel he wanted to ride.

He wasn’t pulling a Fear & Loathing — there really was a camel there offering rides, and he could see it from his perch on the Rock Star. I could not see it, but that may have had something to do with the fact that I had my eyes squeezed shut the whole time.

So that is why, when Mike and Laura arrived, they found me on the Quadzilla — a quad ride in KiddieLand. Palate cleansing, etc etc.

One thing to note about the fair is that it is HOT. And I don’t mean like, “Holy shit, there are so many people here I’d like to fuck.” (Because there never ever are.) What I mean is that it’s Are-We-Walking-Inside-Satan’s-Asshole? hot. Turbulent carnival rides, fried food and rednecks waiting for their yokel-okel country concert to start, all while stewing under Hell’s broiler — what a great combination! In year’s past, they’ve set up misting tents but there was nothing of the sort this year, which angered Laura greatly. She kept saying, “They should have those misting tents here” and I kept answering, “I think they used to” but now I’m not sure if this really happened as many times as it felt like or if my head was just playing Groundhog Day games from the heat.

But it’s so worth it. Just look at that majesty!

There is literally no shade on the fairgrounds though. Please plant some trees. Until then, if you REALLY want some shade, I guess you’ll have to ride the Zipper.

Fa-la-la-la-uckkkkkk! Good goddamn I love this stupid ride so much! I was hoping that Chooch would be tall enough this year but he’s still an inch shy. He actually cheered at the discovery of this because I guess I couldn’t hear him over my PEER PRESSURE when he said that he didn’t actually want to ride it. Thank god Laura rode it with me, because there are NO SINGLE RIDERS. I guess they tested it once on an immigrant carny and found him pulverized like a Hellraiser extra.

ZIPPER 4 LYFE! I might get this sexy motherfucker tattooed on my inner thigh. YOLO.

Speaking of YOLO, I tried to get Henry to buy a YOLO trucker cap, and when he and his lifesized frown continued walking hand-in-hand, I considered buying one for Andrea’s birthday but I got sidetracked in my hunt for a Lil’ Wayne belt buckle for her instead.

(Spoiler Alert: I didn’t find one.)

Chooch’s favorite ride. I’m glad he can ride things alone now, because I don’t have the endurance to go on this as many times as he wants. And I especially can’t exit the ride and get right back on like he does. I mean, I want to lose more weight, but purging on rides at a carnival sounds like it would make me cry worse than the Jillian Michaels DVDs I do every day.

Do not ride the bumper cars with Chooch unless you have total control. He’s the WORST. And then he ditched me when the ride was over and I got stuck in a bottleneck of SMALL SCREAMING CHILDREN trying to exit the fucking thing. By the time I escaped, Chooch was back with our group, sitting on a bench, sucking on a lemonade. Fucker.

Not yo’ granddad’s ferris wheel.

I skipped over the Skydiver. The last time I rode that motherfucker was at Lakemont Park in 2009 and my sabbatical from voluntarily torture is still going strong. Maybe next year. (I just don’t understand why they can’t pad the inside of the cages with some goddamn Memory Foam! The physical pain of this ride is way scarier than the actual “plummeting to your death” sensation.

It was so hot, all my photos started coming out red. (Untruth.)

Not even ice cream helped cool us off.

It looks so sparsely-populated on the fairgrounds, probably because 65% of the crowd was shacked up in makeshift infirmaries due to heat stroke and skin blistering. (Please do not fact-check this.)

Be back later with more, oh boy. And VIDEOS too. Can you even stand how high-tech and diverse this stupid blog has become?

Chooch hounded us to get his caricature done at the Arts Festival last month but we kept saying no because we didn’t feel like being there any longer. (The Arts Festival always seems like such a grand idea until we get there and then we all get cranky & bored.)

But Henry for some reason was in an OK mood at the Big Butler Fair last week (correction: he was in a good mood after we let him eat) so he gave Chooch the greenlight. Even told the artist to go for the full-body color option. I couldn’t believe it. This was after Henry bought us a vacation, too! (More on that later.) So now I’m left to believe that Henry has a new side gig dealing drugs.

“You want me to draw you as Superman? Batman?” the artist who I immediately developed a crush on asked Chooch.

“A cat,” Chooch answered in his signature “Why are you asking me stupid questions?” tone.

I took the above picture right when this exchange happened and the artist turned around to laugh with us.

Of course he wanted to be a cat. We were cracking up the whole time, and then the OMG SO ADORABLE artist asked Chooch if he could take a picture of him with the finished drawing because he thought he was so funny.

We bought a frame for it today because it’s definitely a keeper. (Plus, it has the signature of my future husband on it.)

Continuing the theme of the day—Spin ’til We Barf—Chooch, Alyson and I were drawn to the Psychodrome, which is essentially a Scrambler cocooned within a geometrically-challenging steel dome. It was probably the longest line we stood in all day, which made me laugh because usually the Scrambler is one of those rides that people usually skip in favor of more extreme coasters and death traps, but I guess when you plant it beneath a strobe-lit octagonal (maybe? I didn’t do so well in Geometry) structure and blast pop music, people are more than happy to stand lifeless for 45 minutes listening to the faraway, tinny screams of each current round of Psychodrome riders.

There was a pre-teen girl in front of us and I noticed in my periphery her silently watching everything the three of us were doing: Chooch taking what he thought was clandestine videos of me (deleted in his sleep), Alyson and I speaking lovingly of our favorite TV workout hosts, Chooch doing everything in his power to bring he attention back to himself. I wanted to scold her for being nebby (Pittsburghese for “nosy” — there, I taught you something; rejoice), but that would entail me speaking to strangers and the only thing worse than speaking to strangers is when the stranger is a KID.

I shudder to think!

It seemed for awhile there that the line wasn’t moving.

“Do you think it’s closed?” Girl Stranger asked, breaking the small talk barrier.

I think I shrugged in response.

“Have you ever been on this before?” she asked.

We all mumbled no.

And then she would go quiet, searching the line for friendlier park patrons.

Girl Stranger looms in the background, and yes, she is watching me take this picture, the sole purpose of which was to capture her for posterity anyway, so look on, Girl Stranger. Look on.

“She’s alone and totally doesn’t know how to be by herself,” Alyson observed, which made me feel bad for my original judgments of “holy shit is this mini-broad annoying.”

Eventually, she found other people to interrogate, who told her that the ride lasted seven minutes and that’s why the line was moving so slow (and I know this because it was my turn to be nebby), so then I was starting to panic internally — I wasn’t sure exactly how stoked I was to be whipped around in a bevy of changing directions while strobe lights struggled to turn me into a temporary epileptic.

Meanwhile, Chooch was using the queue railings as makeshift monkey bars. I kept warning him that he was going to fall and die, but he’s a 7-year-old boy and knows everything, has published books on amusement park line gymnastics, what does some bitch mom know. Tiring of me nagging him, he moved from the top rail to the bottom, which I still wasn’t on board with but whatever — at least he was closer to the ground.

A few minutes passed and I saw it happen in veritable slo-mo: the slip of the hands, balance pulled out like a rug from beneath him, and then he was tilting back, back, back, until he had spun 180 degrees backward and kissing the asphalt with the back of his head.

Chooch, pre-head trauma. Also, I want that chair.

A 2 out of 10 as far as landings go.

Pretty sure the entire contents of the Psychodrome line ceased their conversations, put down their phones, turned off their One Direction daydreams in order to be ALL EYES ON CHOOCH.

Who, by the way, was red-faced and very openly weeping.

And that is when the lump in my throat informed me that I was going to have to….parent.

It’s so fucking awkward when your kid gets injured in public because no matter what, you’re going to feel like an asshole parent. Sure, I had put on the “You’re going to get hurt!” broken record, but no one else knew that. For all they knew, I had neglected him, forgot he was even there with me, or maybe I kicked him off the rail myself. WHO KNOWS?! You weren’t there! You don’t know!

There are several stages of emotions involved with being a parent seconds after your kid bites it:

1. Panic: OMG WILL I NEED TO DIAL 911?! ARE THERE BONES JUTTING FROM THE FLESH?!

2. Grief: MY KID IS CRYING AND I FEEL SO BAD!

3. Nausea: Usually only happens when blood is involved. Most commonly paired with Jello-legs.

4. Anger: I FUCKING TOLD THIS KID TO STOP [insert Jackassery here] BEFORE HE GETS HURT!

5. Fear: WE’RE THERE WITNESSES?! PLEASE DON’T CALL CHILD SERVICES.

6. Denial: NO I CAN’T DO THIS. SOMEONE ELSE HANDLE PLEASE. (Also known as “Worthlessness.”)

So he’s crying and burying his face into my stomach and I’m going through the “there there” motions, but I can FEEL THE EYES ON ME AND I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO! I felt for blood. None.

I looked at his pupils.

Seemed OK? I don’t know!

I couldn’t get him to calm down. Couldn’t find asshole Henry on any of the benches near the ride, further solidifying my hypothesis that he sneaks off to ride the helicopters in kiddie land every time we get in line for something too dangerous for his precious cargo. (I don’t know what that would be. His weener? Probably something he would consider precious.)

So I texted Henry “WHERE ARE YOU ASSHOLE” because god forbid I should be expected to handle something on my own. I was half-aware of Girl Stranger plucking some sort of tree dropping that Chooch had acquired during the grand finale of his klutz routine.

“Aw, that’s sweet of her,” I thought. But then she ruined the moment by asking me, “How many people do you think can ride this at one time?”

OH I DON’T KNOW, let me think about that after I make sure my kid remembers his name. God!

I asked Chooch if he wanted to go sit down, all the while praying that he says no, that he still wants to ride the Psychodrome, because lord knows we had invested enough time rotting away with all the other mouth-breathers in this motherfucking god forsaken line. And I briefly worried that people would judge me, like, “I can’t believe that woman is going to take her child on a ride like this when he clearly concussed according to the Google search I just performed because I have nothing better to do than criticize other parents instead of tending to the needs of my own children who I think I may have left in the car.”

But a cursory glance told me that most of the people in the line were other teenagers who had probably moved on to other things, like sexting, once they realized that no one was bleeding. And then I briefly made the situation bad again by telling Chooch that the bump on the back of his head was only going to get larger until it eventually hatched and he would probably feel much better once all the baby spiders exited.

And if he was concussed, I think a fling on the Psychodrome would have diagnosed it for us, and luckily he didn’t come staggering out of the other side vomiting up thick yellow digestive juices and wondering why everyone was suddenly speaking in ringing bells. (Although I was pretty close to it, so maybe I have a concussion? HENRY WHAT DID YOU DO?!)

A rare photo of the Oh Honestlys.

Pretty much my only memory of the ride was Chooch chastising me for not recognizing the Ke$ha song pinging off the steel dome, and then the lights went out and everyone screamed for an unlimited collection of minutes and then I was stumbling out into the sunlight. Amazing what dumping the Scrambler into a makeshift discoteque can do to ones nervous system. Never have I ridden a ride with such an apropos name. I later learned that this was Stephen King’s runner-up subject for “Under the Dome.” (Please don’t fact check that, thanks.)

And then just in case Chooch didn’t do enough damage during his tumble, I took him on the Turkish Twist, a quick-spinning cylindric room with a dropping floor, to further scramble his brains. That’s just being a good parent.

Creeps.

Canobie Po-Po!

Toward the end of the day, Alyson and I strong-armed Chooch into riding the Untamed (pictured above). That first 90 degree drop was right next to the line, so we had a good 30 minutes of listening to people scream like murder victims, which didn’t do much to reassure Chooch.

When it was our turn, the ride operator asked him if he was OK, because his face was blanched and his eyes were deadened. “He’s fine!” I lied with a nervous laugh.

I mean, that looks like the face of someone who’s fine, right?

When we pulled back into the ride platform, the ride operator asked Chooch if he liked it.

“NO!” he screamed, and that’s when I realized that not only was he scared, he was PISSED. “I kept hitting my head! And then HER purse hit me in the face!” he spat, pointing to Alyson.

Chooch right now just said to me, “Don’t even write anything about me crying because I never cried!!” even though he totally did.

Later, I asked him what his favorite ride was and he said the Untamed. Makes sense.

Metal, even on the Tea Cups.

We laughed our asses off on the Tea Cups, while Henry frowned from a distance.

And if I had to sum the day up in one picture, it would be this one. So stoked for Canobie. Thank you, Alyson, for taking us there! Give me a good, old-fashioned amusement park over Six Flags ANY day!

In line for the Yankee Cannonball, I noticed the sign on the ride operator’s podium and started imagining Henry as the ride operator and a line full of Erin Rachelle Kellys distracting him. And with that, I am going to turn this over to Henry and let him tell the tale of what he was feeling in each photo, as I’m sure his thoughts and feelings are riveting. And I’m sure he’ll need some coaxing so this will probably turn into a Q&A session.

Me = italics

Henry = not italics

Asian Man Moustache Ornament.

Waiting in another line to feed the kids again.

Erin: “How much does it annoy you when Chooch and I scream our food orders at you and then leave you to carry everything on your own?”

Henry, muttering: “Oh Jesus Christ. It’s like having two 10-year-olds.”

I believe everyone else was done by the time I got my food.

Erin: “When you were in the SERVICE, did you go to any amusement parks?”

Henry: “Magic Mountain. I don’t recall being anywhere else.”

Erin: “Did you have fun?”

Henry, seriously thinking about it: “Yeah.”

Erin: “What did you wear?”

Henry, appalled: “WHAT? I don’t KNOW. It was like 20* years ago! I’m going to guess jeans and a t-shirt.”

*(Try THIRTY years, buddy.)

Erin: “A TED NUGENT shirt??”

Henry: “No I don’t know what it was.”

Erin: “DID YOU RIDE STUFF?!”

Henry: “Yeah, whatever rides they had back in 1984.”

Erin: “So, you rode rides and had FUN. What happened since then  to make you hate amusement parks then?!”

Henry: “I don’t HATE amusement parks. I just can’t ride rides without getting sick now.”

[Finally. The truth comes out. Henry was molested by another SERVICEMAN on a ride at Magic Mountain and now gets sick every time he goes to an amusement park. How did it take me so long to uncover this?!

I bet it happened on the Tilt-a-Whirl.]

Getting ready to finish Chooch’s food, and also the rest of Erin’s.

Thanks for winning me a Strawberry Shortcake, assholes.

Chooch and I wasting another $5 on rings.

Contemplating finding a bar to go to.

Best time of the day!

Erin: “Did you try to fuck that lady in front of you?”

Henry: “Yes.”

He learned this fancy hand-clasp in PANAMA.

All my minions follow behind.

Erin: “Did the Sky Ride bring back memories of BASIC TRAINING EXERCISES in the SERVICE? Like JUMPING OUT OF A PLANE?!?!”

Henry: “I didn’t jump out of airplanes.”

Erin: “What would it take to get you to ride the Tea Cups? Fill them with FAYGO?”

Henry: You’re so dumb.”

“I have an idea: let’s leave.”

Erin: “Did you have any fun at all? Like on a scale of Sitting in Your Underwear Watching Criminal Minds to Remarrying Your Ex-Wife, how terrible was your day?”

Henry: “I never said I didn’t have fun. Just because I don’t ride anything, doesn’t mean I don’t have fun.”

Erin: “Wow. What an Old Person response.”

I had been studying Canobie Lake Park in the weeks prior to our trip. Already, I liked that it had rides that I hadn’t seen anywhere else, rides that are probably popular in gypsy-run carnivals in Eastern Europe that are probably not inspected but definitely have the best motherfucking pierogies you’re ever going to find this side of Hunky poker night in Pittsburgh. And it has three coasters and a darkride! Something for everyone and everything for me.

Canobie has the motherlode of spinny rides, the kinds with the brightly-colored flashing lights and German techno music and random murals of Marilyn Monroe standing on a beach. Alyson kept saying things like, “YES! LET’S RIDE THIS CENTRIFUGAL FORCE TORTURE DEVICE AND BARF ALL OVER OURSELVES!” to which I would cheer while silently hoping that no one actually barfed because HAVEN’T YOU SEEN PROBLEM CHILD!?

The Extreme Frisbee, are you fucking kidding me. When I first saw it, I gave it a million middle fingers with my eyes alone. Something has happened to me along the way where I’m less afraid of puking and more afraid of OMG THAT FUCKER GOES HIGH AS SHIT!! This is why I have refused to ride the SwingShot since my inaugural boarding in 2007, where I honestly though my bowels were going to liquify and seep out of my mouth. But this past trip to Kennywood, I had a change of heart, and ended up riding it THREE TIMES. And I LOVED it. I kept saying things like, “Why was I so afraid of it then?” and “I want to get married on this ride” and “TAKE ME TO PROM, SWINGSHOT! I’ll pretend to be a virgin!”

I applied this revelation to the case of Erin v. The Extreme Frisbee and asked Alyson if she’d ride it. (Chooch was so angry that he wasn’t tall enough, so he and Henry did lame stuff in the meantime.)

“Ohhh, this looks REAL barfy,” she said solemnly, and then headed straight for the entrance.

Alyson ain’t scared of shit, you guys. She is the model riding partner!

In line, I tried to distract myself by talking about Serious Things, like being stalked by CYS-reporting religious nuts and getting Single White Femaled once again, this time by a Married White Female. But soon it was our turn and I honestly almost ran of the ride. Especially when we were the last two to board and found that we weren’t even going to sit next to each other. I didn’t want to die alone!

But the nice ride assistant (they are so nice and super enthusiastic at Canobie, often times making all of the riders scream and cheer before sending them off to their uncertain death) made everyone next to me move down so that Alyson could take the seat next to me. What a gentleman. And then, in effort to mask my fear with humor, I pointed out that the ride was made in Germany.

Of course.

Germany! You motherfucker!

I actually am a 3 ring circus — how did they know!?

And then I just remember sheer terror, roaring gears, and SCREAMING. The kind of screaming that is usually followed shortly by a chainsaw in Texas.

Alyson laughed her ass off through the entire ride. I’m sitting next to her, eyelids clenched, fingers gripping the safety bar and chanting, “WHY WHY WHY WHY OMG OMH WHY WE’RE ALL GONNA DIEEEE” over and over while she’s laughing like she’s being tickled. And that made me laugh too.

But only for a second! Then it was back to motherfucking Germans and their sadistic carnival engineers.

SURPRISE! We didn’t die. And for some fucked up reason, about an hour later I admitted that I wanted to ride it again. And we did too, shortly before the park closed. And it was even scarier / more fun at night. THERE, I SAID IT. I like the stupid Frisbee.

I have found, though, that the secret to success of being a grown-up in an amusement park full of racing-light temptations is MODERATION. Ride a goddamn spinny ride, take a stroll, eat a fucking foodstuff. Then ride some more. And keep doing that.

This does not work for Henry or dummies. Sorry, suckers. Get a better sense of balance or something.

It’s tough when you’re at a place like this with a child though, because it seems that their least favorite things in the world are “taking a stroll and eating fucking foodstuff.” They want to have their brains scrambled and then get back in line to do it again.

Chooch was an impatient jerk when, after riding the Yankee Cannonball (a wooden coaster that may have truncated my spinal column a little bit but Alyson didn’t hear the sickening crack over top of her hysterical laughter), I vetoed his urgent pleas for moremoremore in favor of using the masticated dough of a personal pan pizza to weigh down my stomach lining like absorbant paperweights. A few days later, Chooch was looking at the map of Canobie we brought with us as a souvenir and said something about the Zero Gravity ride that he didn’t ride because of me.

“I didn’t even know they had one of those there!” I cried, because I totally would have rode it with him.

“Yeah, I asked you if you wanted to ride it but you said—” (and here he hires a nasal, whiny tone to mimic me) “—‘Not right now! I need to eat something and then ride something calm!'” And he also scrunched up his arms like a T-Rex and fluttered his fingers, because this is his Erin impression which is awesome to know.

At least he got to ride some spinny/bouncy ride by himself while the grown-ups were eating, god forbid.

Speaking of grand impersonators, a pseudo Justin Bieber took the stage next to us and treated us to a thrilling display of lip-synching and Martha’s Jazz Barn choreography. Alyson mentioned that she didn’t even know any Bieber songs, WELL NOW SHE DOES! And hopefully the next billion times she hears one in a grocery store, she will think of me!

Later, we were in line for another spinny ride called the Skater and were thoroughly entertained by this beefy sports fan who rejoiced in cries of “AWESOME!” and “YEAAAAH!” kind of like Lil Jon, which made Alyson and me crack up because he just did not seem like the kind of guy who would be so joyous on an oversized skateboard spinning up and down a ramp. But he was REALLY FUCKING FEELING IT and I looked over at Henry, who was standing off to the side of the Skater, eating a blue Italian ice, and thought, “Why can’t that asshole enjoy these rides too!?” Maybe if there was a SERVICE-themed amusement park.

When it was our turn, I wound up sitting next to a friendly but boundary-crossing guy and who was pretty much using the entire left side of my body as his afternoon nap apparatus. Dude was fucking heavy! Meanwhile, Alyson was teaching Chooch to hold up his hands, metal-style, and scream “Slayerrrrr!”

When we got off the ride, I started cracking up all over again because Skater’s #1 Fan & Afternoon Nap Guy belonged to each other!

(l to r) Skater’s #1 Fan & Afternoon Nap Guy.

SLAYERRRR!

****

I’m trying to keep this as condensed as possible, but the fact is, we never get to hang out with Alyson and I want to remember every thing that happened! I don’t want this to be all tl;dr (that means “too long; didn’t read,” BARB!) so I’m splitting it up into several parts. Sue me!

daddy didn’t go on the turtles because he’s such a cry baby. he also did not want to go on the arrow three 60 but I did and the swing shot. mommy said I was so scared to go on the arrow 3 60 but I wasn’t. I sat by a girl with red hair and mommy sat by a girl with black hair. [Ed.Note. And these are details that Chooch remembers because the girls were his type: TEENAGERS.]

mommys lying! its not true. it’s daddys type!! derp trolled

me and mommy went  on the whip and the guy said enjoy your ride and when the ride started mommy mocked the guy and on the whole ride mommy kept saying ENJOY YOUR WOOOOIDE IT was annoying.

{Ed. Note: OMG THAT LITTLE FUCKER, he was laughing so hard when I was doing that! Now he has to act all hard core for the Internet, WTF.]

fml

me and laura were talking about minecraft servers while mommy and daddy went on the thunderbolt.

I got to go on the swingshot and the aero360 [Ed.Note: I spelled it for him this time because I could stand it no longer.] and cosmic chaos and phantoms revenge for the first time  this year!  I feel sad and happy and mad. [Ed.Note. Perhaps we should get him some therapy.]

nuh uh I should not have a therapy!!!

I kept squishing mommy the first time we went on Musik Express.

Laura was squishing me on the Musik Express. I was not scared.

I won. [Ed.Note: NO HE DID NOT. HE ONLY WON AT WASTING OUR MONEY, THANK YOU, NICE TRY.]

enjoy your woooooooooide.

We made it somewhere right outside of Connecticut by the end of Driving: Day One*, and crashed at some sketchy hotel in New York.

*(There were videos in that post that I don’t think were working when I initially published it, but I just embedded them from YouTube so now everyone can run right on over to watch them. No really. RUN! RUN LIKE SNOOKIE IS CHASING YOU WITH HER KOOKA ALL A’THRUST!)

Woke up super early the next morning—after barely sleeping at all thanks to my log-sawing travel compatriots—in order to drive the remaining four hours and make it to Alyson’s house at a reasonable hour, because hello — we had an amusement park to go to! I really enjoy road trips. I like sitting my fat ass in the passenger seat, complaining about being bored, fidgeting with the music, and regaling tales of shit that no one in the car cares about. Mostly, I like not being home and the anticipation of arriving somewhere new. This all goes out the window once we hit traffice. Which we did, for what seemed like HOURS. (But was apparently only about 30 minutes.)

I was nervously excited about seeing Alyson again. We met on LiveJournal back in 2005, introduced by her shitty then-boyfriend, and hit it off immediately. On the outside, we seem very different: she’s metal, I’m a scene kid. But we LOVE THE CURE and share an inside joke regarding that. We have the same ridiculous humor and we find the simplest, most mundane things to be HILARIOUS. Things that make most people (see: Henry) raise their eyebrows. (Or, in Henry’s case, frown.) Music touches our souls in ways that seem confusing and strange to others because, you know, we’re not 16 anymore and it is apparently bizarre that we will travel great distances and go to such lengths to see our favorites perform live.

We also get fucked over in a myriad of astonishing ways by a virtual conveyor belt of “friends,” but are actually just people obsessed with their own unhappiness. Alyson and I first met in person back in 2006 when she traveled to Pittsburgh to attend my baby shower. And the last time I saw her was in 2008 when she returned for our mutual friend Kara’s wedding. It has been a long time between visits and I wondered if she would decide that I was more annoying than she remembered or that Chooch was a brat (very real possibilities!). YOU NEVER KNOW! 

But no, we fell right into a groove, begging Henry to speak of the SERVICE and Ted Nugent; sharing stories of our favorite bands and the singers who have shat upon our hearts; and finding sheer delight in the small things all day at Canobie Lake Park, while having our stomachs churned and our brains scrambled. I have always felt that if we lived closer, we would be even better friends.

And I was so happy that she suggested we visit her local amusement park a few months ago in an email, because I’m always scouring the Darkride and Funhouse Enthusiasts website for parks to go to so I’ve known about Canobie and their darkride called Mine of the Lost Souls and was really hoping it would be a possibility to go there on our trip. And Alyson even seemed excited when I replied to her suggested itinerary and said, “CANOBIE!”

What a perfect way to spend our first day together! Laughing like little kids at some old, charming amusement park. What a perfect way to catch up: while standing in line for spinny rides, pausing here and there to point out shitty tattoos and eavesdrop on other conversations while taking pictures of Henry looking exhausted and totally put-upon.

And what a great way for her to bond with Chooch, who took to her immediately and helped himself to a self-guided tour of her home as soon as he walked through the door. The last time he saw her, he was about 2 and a half years old and somehow he actually remembers this. A few weeks ago, I tried to show him her picture on Facebook so that he would know who we were going to see, and he said, “I know who she is. We went to Eat n Park when she was here. I sat on a motorcycle.”

TRUE STORY!

Anyway, we were only in her house for about a minute when I realized we had been pronouncing “Canobie” this whole time. It’s not actually like Obi Wan Kenobi! But CAN-uh-bee. Chooch and I kept catching ourselves beginning to say it wrong all weekend, but Henry flat out kept pronouncing it wrong, because when you’re a SERVICE veteran, you can get away with shit like that.

And then I pointed out that she has a Troy Polamalu bobblehead, to which she responded, “Yeah, YOU got it for me!” Even Henry remembered, but I completely drew a blank.

“Did I KNOW that I got it for you?” I asked jokingly, with a little bit of truth.

Yep, that’s me: That totally attentive friend whom everyone desires.

And we hadn’t even gone to the park yet so I couldn’t blame it on Canobie whiplash.

In typical Oh Honestly, Erin-form, this needs to be a multi-parter because I have a ton of photos to wade through and happy thoughts to sort out and hopefully an official Henry Interview to transcribe. Ciao for now!

(I actually never finished the 2013 Kennywood Chronicles, either. BLOGGING ANXIETY. Maybe I’ll make Chooch finish it for me.)

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!

Even more than amusement parks, county fairs, road trips and cemetery heat waves, my favorite thing about summer is WARPED TOUR. (Which you already know if you’ve known me for at least 15 days. I have framed pictures of the damn thing on my desk at work for fuck’s sake.

)

The tour officially kicked off a few days ago and I have been salivating over all of the pictures they’ve been throwing up on Instagram. One more month until it’s here in Pittsburgh and I can hardly wait! Chiodos! Sleeping With Sirens! Hands Like Houses! The Wonder Years! letlive.! The Used! Man Overboard! BRING ME THE HORIZON! Plus all the bands I don’t even know that I like yet!  I can’t even. An entire day to be amongst my own people!

What’s notable about this year’s Warped Tour is that it will be Chooch’s first ever time attending!

We almost took him last year, but decided against it at the last minute. But ever since he went to the Pierce the Veil show (and found out his 8th grade cougar-girlfriend will be there), he has been expressing interest in going with us this summer and it’s not like I would ever try to discourage that! I really think he’s going to fucking love it. There’s so much going on there that if he needs a break from the music, he’ll be covered. And I’m sure Henry will be using him as his scapegoat.

“Oh, boy….uh, it looks like Chooch needs to….sit down. Under a tree. And take a nap. BBL KBYE.”

Maybe I’ll try to get them both to guest post about it afterward.

Anyway, I’m posting this not just because I’m excited but also because I needed a break from writing about Kennywood because the residual giggles are apt to get me fired from my job that is how obnoxious I’ve been here this week. Sorry, co-workers! I’m trying to get my psychotic, worrisome laughing fits confined to my desk but sometimes they slip out in the bathroom and the kitchen and every single hallway I’ve tread on today.

No Jonny Craig at Warped Tour this year, too bad so sad.

OK, I need to get back to penning my Kennywood prose so that my detractors can get ready to tell me how grammatically incorrect my “writing” is, at which point I will pause to remind everyone that all I do is post iPhone photos and YouTube videos of my favorite songs, so like…what writing?

Above is a photo of Laura loving life as she rode the Turtles at Kennywood, which is evidently her most favorite ride ever. There was probably a Carpenters track playing in her head,  even. Too bad her life was about to change FOREVER a little bit later when she became involuntarily AMPUTATED on the PHANTOM’S REVENGE.

Shit, now I’m getting my parables mixed up.

Anyway, what happened was Laura, Chooch and I were walking toward the Exterminator (Henry was there somewhere) when Laura (this was all LAURA’S idea), threw a wrench into our well thought-out plan by saying, “Or we could just go on this…since we’re here…” and did a lazy Vanna White with her hands toward the entrance of the Phantom’s Revenge.

We had already went on this twice earlier in the day. The first time, we absolutely, postively walked right onto the platform and right the fuck onto the ride, that is how empty Kennywood was that day. Even on not-too-crowded days, there is still usually some sort of a line for this ride, because it’s the Big Shot Steel Coaster up in that piece, and everyone wants to take their turn on it, like the roofied guy at the sorority party. Oh wait. I’m sorry. I’m confusing genders.

The second time was actually a continuation of the first time, because when the coaster came back to the station, there was no one in line still, so the Kennywood peeps were all, “Hey, you guys can stay on if you want” so we did and it turns out that’s not so fun afterward, riding it with no break in between, when you’re in your thirties and not a seven-year-old like Chooch who was like, “THAT WAS AWESOME LET’S STAY ON THIS FOR THE REST OF THE DAY OMFG!!” as he pushed his eyeball back into its socket.

You should have seen Henry afterward, all clammy and green around the gills, wherever the hell his gills are, like he had just suffered through a particularly traumatizing Ludovico Technique featuring footage of all nine years of his loveless past marriage. (Past marriage.  Like there’s a present marriage. Hmph!)

So after Laura suggested riding it for the third time, Henry obviously was like, “Thank you sir, but I will NOT have another,” and proceeded to walk toward the exit of the Phantom’s Revenge, where he waited like an obedient puppy with his master’s purse. The rest of us ridiculed him for being a pussy and ran through the empty queue to the platform, where we saw there was a small line. We chose the seats that had the fewest number of people waiting and made sure that it was lined up evenly so that the three of us could get on at the same time.

Meanwhile, there was some sort of seat belt malfunction going on. The coaster was sitting there idly, full of passengers, but the ride attendants couldn’t send it off because of whatever was going on.

“We need someone to sit in this seat!” one of the teenaged boys in a Kennywood polo shouted. “There’s nothing wrong, but we can’t send this on with this car empty! It’s not a mechanical problem, just this one seatbelt!” And he was holding the seatbelt, too, as if that was going to reassure people.

And who wouldn’t be OK with putting their safety into the hands of a college kid on summer break?

Everyone started murmuring to each other about not wanting to ride in a car with a broken seat belt, even though it was only one of the seats in the car– the other one was apparently functioning properly, so only one person could sit in that seat. Some dumbass single rider was all, “Whatever, yeah, I’ll do it,” sparking a collective outcry regarding his stupidity. Some older woman in the line next to us was FREAKING THE FUCK OUT about this and her kids (her KIDS) were trying to calm her down. “They’re not going to let people ride it still if it’s actually broken, Mom!” one of the kids cried in frustration.

“But they’re using A REAL PERSON as a dummy!” she countered.

They sent the coaster up the hill, and we all turned and watched as it raced down the hill a minute later.

“No, he’s still on it. I saw him,” Laura assured me and Chooch. I wanted everyone to clap when the coaster returned to the platform with the idiot Single Rider still fastened into his seat, but everyone seemed to have lost interest by then.

However, that became the temporary designated single rider seat for the time being while the attendants waited for the maintenance guys to arrive with a new seatbelt. “Shit, they’re going to make me sit there!” Laura cried when it dawned on her what was going on. Chooch and I, of course, nearly gave up our asshole ghosts from laughing so hard at her future misfortune.

Just then, I looked ahead and noticed that the girl who was in front of us had moved over to the Broken Seat Belt Line, which meant that Chooch and I were next. We kind of half-heartedly tried to find someone to go ahead of us so that we could ride at the same time as Laura, but everyone behind us was perfectly lined up with their respective groups as well and didn’t want to give up their spots. So we shrugged a disgenuine “sorry” in Laura’s general direction, and then climbed into the car, leaving her alone on the platform. The guy behind her was laughing at our mock-sorrow, which made the whole situation even funnier to me.

When we came back to the station, we gave her a quick wave and then ran away to find Henry, who looked confused that we were short one person. So Chooch and I hysterically recounted the broken seatbelt situation (“I know, I saw the maintenance men go over there so I figured something was wrong,” Henry interrupted, fulfilling his inherent need to speak of any sort of man in uniform) and then started laughing even harder when we got to the part about ditching Laura.

“AND NOW SHE HAS TO SIT IN THE BROKEN SEAT!” we cried, doubling over in laughter.

“You two are both assholes,” Henry yelled at us, but that was the same time we realized that the coaster was ascending the inaugural hill, so Chooch and I ran closer to take a picture of what we were lovingly referring to as “Laura’s Last Ride.”

(Time out. I am going to pause here for a second so I can walk off this ridiculous laughter before I start alarming people at work again.)

ENJOY YOUR LAST RIDE, LAURA!

We ran back to Henry, who was scowling and trying to shrug away from his hyena-brood. At this point, I was on the pee-precipice and it wasn’t looking too good. Passers-by were starting to flash Chooch and I the “I wonder what they’re on” looks, which yes, I DO get a lot, now that you mention it.

And then finally, Laura came padding down the exit trail, looking disheveled and not very pleased.

We immediately started laughing harder. Oh, schadenfreude! My old friend!

“That was the most awkward ride ever!” Laura cried. Apparently, the maintence crew had fixed the seatbelt situation after Chooch and I got off the ride, so Laura wasn’t relegated to sitting in the Single Rider Death Seat. However, when she stepped across the seat to put her purse in one of the cubby holes, she turned around to discover that people behind her had taken her seat. So she had to walk around, looking for a car with an empty seat, and that is how she ended up sitting with some single dad. At this point in the story, Chooch and I raced over to look at the picture on the screen and then promptly lost our shit all the fuck over again. Even Henry mosied on over to take a gander at the photographical evidence of Laura’s misfortune.

The kid running the photo booth was kind of fake-laughing along with us, but it was clear he wasn’t sure what was so funny. Also unclear to him was whether or not he was going to make a sale on this one.

“Henry, PLEASE give me money to buy this!” I begged in my signature mouthful of laughs / Bobcat Goldthwaite voice. It’s Henry’s favorite part about me. Especially when it happens during sex.

“No!” he yelled. “I’m not paying $15 for that! That’s outrageous.”

“BUT IT’S WORTH IT TO ME!” I cried harder. I have got to stop leaving my wallet in the car when we go to amusement parks. This is bullshit.

And then something incredible happened! LAURA BOUGHT IT FOR ME! She didn’t seem too pleased about spending money on such an uncomfortable memory, but she did it anyway because she is a GOOD FRIEND. (Apparently, the OPPOSITE of what I am, according to Henry.)

The guy behind the photo counter was partially bemused, but mostly puzzled at this point, as Laura handed over her credit card with a sigh while Chooch and I flanked her in hysterical laughter. It’s like we’re drunk all of the time without actually consuming any alcohol. This is normal public behavior for us. Laughing so hard we need to lean on walls and people for support. Sometimes I lean on people I don’t even know because I can’t help myself, the laughter makes me walk on a slant, you guys.

When Laura handed me the photo, I blurted out, “You don’t have to get me a birthday present now!”

“I already did,” she sighed, with just a tinge of bitterness and regret.

Henry pointed out that Laura’s Temporary Husband also purchased one of the photos, which wound me up all over again. I wonder if it’s as funny to him?!!?

HAHAHAHAHA BUT THIS PICTURE, THOUGH! Baby Mama Laura! Oh shit, I have to pee — BRB.

I have been actually crying about it at work, it is THAT funny to me, but everyone here is like, “It is not that funny, if at all” and “You’re so mean to your friends.”  And Henry is like, “No really, it’s not that funny” and “I can’t figure out how you have any friends at all.”   But Chooch and me? WE HAVE FIGURATIVELY BURIED OURSELVES IN A GRAVE OF IDIOCY from all of the laughing we’ve been doing. Team Dickhead FTW!

These past two days at work, Barb has basically been searching her desk for her imaginary OUT TO LUNCH sign every time she sees me approaching  because she knows I’m going to just stand there and have uncontrollable giggles usurp my ability to speak like a regular human being. However, at least she can appreciate the fact that it’s more of the backstory surrounding the photo that has legitimately cracked my sanity. Everyone else is just looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.

Just today, I was walking to the trolley and I started laughing all over again, and I mean LAUGHING. So I called Henry and said, “You have to stay on the phone with me because I’m walking down the street and laughing uncontrollably.” (Which actually isn’t anything out of the ordinary in my neighborhood.)

“What are you laughing about—-” Henry started. And then, “Oh. Never mind.”

But it was too late. My laughter upchucked out of my mouth like a galloping horse and I had to pause in a doorway of a store because I almost peed my pants in the middle of the sidewalk. I AM OUT OF CONTROL. This is what happens to me at amusement parks! I turn into a hyper dickhead and then suffer from residual giddiness for days afterward and you know who suffers? Henry! My co-workers! YOU! THE INTERNET!

And then that motherfucker Henry waited until I was on the trolley to text me the picture, which caught me off guard and I had to cover my face with my hair and laugh at my reflection in the stupid trolley window and then I started crying and people were looking and some asshole probably wrote a blog post about ME, can you imagine.

It’s tradition for us to go to Kennywood on Father’s Day. I can’t remember how it started. I think Henry randomly heard someone say that it’s one of the least crowded days of the years (all those deadbeat dads don’t wanna leave their couch and beer cases, I guess?) so we went when Chooch was a baby and it was pretty awesome. But for an amusement park like Kennywood, even the supposed “least crowded day” is going to have some lines in which  to wait and count prison tattoos.

Unless you go during a rainstorm!

But we almost didn’t go. It was raining so terribly hard when we woke up on Sunday morning that I almost made the decision to not go (because it is ALWAYS my decision). But deep down, I had a really good feeling that it would turn out to be OK. One of the best Kennywood experiences of my life was back in the late 90s when my friend Lisa and I went on a day that called for thunderstorms — everyone thought we were nuts, but we sure showed THEM. (I think?)

It stopped raining for about two hours before we got to the park, so we were all smug on our drive out there. Of course, rain began to drop in torrents right when Chooch got off the first ride of the day….

 …which was promptly shut down as soon as the ride ended.

I wasn’t about to let the rain get us down, so I led Henry and Chooch toward rides that are under cover, like the Musik Express and the Exterminator, which is kind of like an indoor Crazy Mouse but a million times better and usually has a long wait time.

But once we walked inside the building that houses the Exterminator, we discovered that there were only about 10 people in line in front of us. Smugness reactivated! I have NEVER been able to get on the Exterminator that fast before ever! The downside is that it eliminated the opportunity to get the inherent need for humanity mocking out of my system. But another upside was that we didn’t have to stand in an endless queue under a roof amid sweating Yinzers for an hour – like being in Hell with a lid on and having to endure the otherworldly stench of rotten underpits and nicotine breath.

Speaking of nicotine, the rain took a long enough smoke break to enable Chooch and I to ride the Jack Rabbit — another 0 minute wait in line — but then it started up right after Laura arrived so we took shelter in the arcade, which was coincidentally the first time in my 33 years of visiting Kennywood to ever give a shit about the arcade.

It was still pouring — the kind of rainstorm that comes down so hard it actually hurts — so we figured that would be a good time to eat….under a roof.

“I just spent $30 on food and all I got was a lousy soft pretzel and my dirty kid’s germ-fingered leftovers. And also, this sick Tom Selleck ‘stache. So…priceless, I guess.”

Chooch kept going on and on about wanting to on “God’s Boat Ride,” which was what he was calling Noah’s Ark all day long, without a single pelvic thrust of irony given. It was still raining kookas and albinos by  the time we finished our lunch that rivaled the price of park admission, so for once I was on Team Chooch and agreed that we should run for our lives to the nearest Noah’s Ark post haste. We were halfway there when I finally bothered to notice that Henry wasn’t with us.

“He was still eating,” Laura said in a sad tone, like she couldn’t believe that I wouldn’t notice something so significant as my life partner mid-lunch. But clearly the rain was affecting her tone, because duh — of course I wouldn’t care to notice something like that. Hahahaha. Hahaha. Hahahahah, oh god.

(I have residual Kennywood giddiness and it is ALL I CAN DO NOT TO WRITE THIS ENTIRE THING IN CAPSLOCK OK OMG.)

Noah’s Ark ended up being one of the only rides we stood in line for all day long, I guess because it was still raining at that point and Noah’s Ark screams SHELTER to all of us wet fucks at Kennywood. God, I’m so good at sleuthing.

My favorite part of Noah’s Ark was when they completely changed it from its original glory and made it into one of the crappiest, pointless rides in the park. J/K. My actual favorite part was when I hid behind a corner and scared the hemorrhoided SHIT out of Henry, he was looking in  the opposite direction at the time, making him even more startled, which he will deny but I saw the way his eyes bulged out behind his dumb black-rimmed glasses. That motherfucker be scared.

The best part of Noah’s Ark is the bouncing floor that makes everyone involuntarily twerk, two-by-two. Suck on that, Noah.

Even Henry’s hemorrhoids be twerkin’.

Too bad Chooch isn’t still in CATHOLIC SCHOOL. Maybe they’d let him wear street clothes for a day if he told them he twerked on down in God’s Boat Ride. Until they wiki’d “twerk” and find 40 ways to connect it to the Devil.

There was an old man in our group who only had a stump for a right hand and I prayed a little right there in God’s Floating Church that Chooch wouldn’t notice.

(He thankfully did not notice.)

(I really wish that guy would have been creative with his stump. If you’re not going to strap a bayonette on it, at least draw it a fucking Sharpie face, for Christ’s sake.)

(Christ’s face?)

And then I got REALLY giddy, you guys. We decided to go on the Racer….

OK, I know this going to be really hard to understand, but the Racer is a RACING rollercoaster with TWO TRAINS that RACE EACH OTHER OMG.

Chooch and I ran to the backseat of the red one, and Laura, fearing the outcome of being our opponent, opted to sit in the same train as us. She’s smart.

Henry, however, chose to sit ALONE in the blue train, which made Chooch and me die with evil laughter. You would have thought this was the funniest thing ever, the motherfucking Kings of Comedy tour on the goddamn Racer at Kennywood, with the extent of our Level 10 belly laughs. Everyone around us had undulating “STFU” thought bubbles above their rain-frizzed heads. Henry kept turning around to glare at us.

Then one of the guys working the ride made the mistake of getting on his microphone thingie to ask everyone if they were having fun, and of course Chooch and I were the only motherfuckers who responded obnoxiously.

RIDING ALONE AHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Oh shit, we heckled the motherfuck out of Henry the entire way up the inaugural hill. It was the FUNNIEST THING IN THE WORLD to Chooch and me, you guys. HENRY! RIDING ALONE! ON FATHER’S DAY!

DON’T STAND UP, MOTHERFUCKERS.

From the very first hill and on, I proceeded to fake-scream as obnoxiously and blood-curdling as possible.

“My God! You sound like you’re being murdered!” Laura shouted over her shoulder, which of course made me channel my inner Janet Leigh/Jamie Lee Curtis Scream Queen until even the people on the other train were looking around for the source of the nails on chalkboard. Most notably was the older man in the backseat of the blue train. He was riding with his young granddaughter and straight up SCOWLED AT ME when our train whizzed by at the very end, bringing us to sweet, sexy victory.

“YEAH! WE WON! YOU’RE ALL LOSERS!!!” Chooch shouted across me at the assholes on the blue train. We continued our asshole parade all the way off the ride until we met up with Henry near the exit for his side.

“WE EVEN BEAT YOU OFF OF THE RIDE!!!” I screamed, laughing so hard I had to squat to keep from peeing. (This is my signature move. I perform it at work at least thrice weekly. However, I’ve already met my quota today alone.)

Loser Train.

Henry acting like he doesn’t care that he lost, because with family like me and Chooch, he’s clearly a winner.

Walking backward to mock Henry some more.

Then I came across the old man who was scowling at me and realized it was the librarian from my high school and I totally fucking lost it. Oh my god, I was laughing so hard that my breath was caught in my throat. I was such a pain in that man’s ass when I was a teenager, so it was only fitting that I put a aural blemish on three minutes of his Father’s Day all these years later.

Then we rode the Jack Rabbit, another wooden coaster, on which I proceeded to scream like an elderly lady from the 1920’s getting a sexual tickle from a feather.

Henry, as much as it must have pained him, actually cracked a smile during that one, though, if you can try to imagine.

Today is Thursday. Here is a throwback from 2011, because I’m having too much fun using my spare time to compile a list of things I want to do when we go on our New England road trip that has almost been canceled three times now.

You’re welcome, Janna.

******************

I don’t normally buy those exorbitantly-priced photos taken at the most inopportune times on roller coasters because they can make even Jennifer Aniston look like her fourth chin is giving birth to an alien flesh-sac with crossed eyes. But after I saw the one of Janna and me on the Sky Rocket, I started laughing so hard that I had to use my thighs as bladder-tourniquets. Janna had this intense look of “Please don’t buy this” in her eyes, almost as if she just knew what was going through my mind.

“I have to have it,” I blurted out to the guy working the photo booth. Suddenly, $10 seemed cheap for a memory that will last a lifetime. I couldn’t stop laughing the whole time we waited for it be printed. Janna seemed considerably less amused, but every so often I’d get a nervous laugh out of her.

I couldn’t wait to show Henry when we met back up with him and Chooch. I began laughing all over again, that insane staccato chuckle I’m notorious for when things have reached the Apex of Giddy. I even cried a little; people were looking at this point.

Henry looked at the picture and just frowned. He was probably angry that I had the audacity to spend my own hard-earned money on such frivolties instead of Desitin for his sweaty summer balls.

This picture is so fucking bad, it’s amazing.

1. If I look like this on a ride that isn’t even scary, I can only imagine how I’ll look if I ever find myself hunted in an Alaskan* forest by Michael Myers carrying a boom box that’s a’blast with Katy Perry’s Worst Misses. Coincidentally, this is also what I look like when Henry makes me have sex with him.
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   :(

2. This was taken .002 seconds after Janna cupped Josh Groban’s ballsack and then died of happiness. What a peaceful corpse she makes.
3. Someone once told the guy in the front seat to treat every moment in life like it’s a deodorant commercial.

I have more pictures and shit to say, but this was the definite highlight of my day. I hope that when I’m on my death bed, someone shows me this, because that’s really how I’d like to peace out.

(*Alaska scares the shit out of me.)