Hoosker-Doo

I ate, today, at a place called Hamburger Hamlet, on the insistence of the Mrs., which was sadly bereft of Shakespearean actors supplementing their meger theater-based incomes in Valencia, California by serving up the tastiest burgers this side of the Renaissance!

As it was, it turned out to be a pretty good restaurant, regardless of the obvious disadvantage of having no connection whatsoever to pantaloons. I had a frozen fruit-blend drink called a peach blossom, and the lobster bisque. So, needless to say, when I finally ended up throwing up at around four this morning after a day of riding roller coasters, downing funnel cakes, and arguing with my better half after only three hours' sleep, the emesis was a particularly objectionable shade of orange.

Incidentally, it says a lot about me that my better half is, physically, a lot smaller than the rest of me. With eleven inches and eighty pounds on her, I think the gravity of my faults sadly and consistently outweighs her influence, good though it may be.

The thing I dislike the most about amusement parks... no, that's not entirely accurate... the thing I dislike the most about Six Flags Magic Mountain (apart from my total lack of understanding as to the punctuation of its title, I figure since it's supposed to be "Six Flags Over Magic Mountain" then the appropriate nomenclature should be Six Flags... Magic Mountain, but the world I live in is hardly so just) is the ride-exit pile-up. All the pussies who wimped out at the last second and are waiting for their friends, all the people who couldn't figure out how to get in line so their entire party could ride together, they just stand there completely blocking the escape route for people like myself and the Mrs. who don't have the slightest inclination to stand around the mongoloids that are drawn to the promise of possibly poisonous street fare and soulless, themeless thrills.

Which, I suppose, includes the Mrs. and me.

I know I've written about Six Flags before, and I largely covered my complaints in the previous post and, for the most part, think it redundant to spend more time discussing its shortcomings further, but I'd like to throw one more thing out there before we move on to the next item on the agenda. One more grievance for the flames, take it or leave it.

In accordance and furtherance of the previous posting concerning Magic Mountain, as to my theory of the roller-coaster Boom Town, there is no theme to Six Flags (as the Mrs. insightfully pointed out to me). Sure, they attempt some brief and fleeting connection to Warner Brothers and their respective cartoon characters, if only to give a face to the child's section of the park and form to the prizes one can win in the "fair games" section of the attraction, but for the most part there is no overriding, connecting, inclusive concept under which the park operates as a whole.

Disneyland has its stock of characters, and its "lands" which each operate under different set rules and expectations, even Knott's has this old-timey western feel to most of its attractions, but Six Flags is bereft of any face, of any identity. It's a nameless, blameless field of rides. Nothing more. That's probably the largest cause for the feeling of impersonality that saturates those who visit it.

Like it would be so difficult to pick something that could unite the whole of the park? Hell, you already have Batman: The Ride and Riddler's Revenge... why not just assimilate the rest of your ridiculous attractions underneath that same umbrella concept and make every. single. ride. about. Batman. villains.

That theme park writes itself... designs itself. Whatever. Goliath becomes Bane, Deja Vu becomes The Joker, etc. etc. Figure it out people. Nothing is this difficult to put together, nothing is so far beyond salvation that you can't make it better by simply giving a fuck about it. You do the rest, Six Flags, I've helped you out enough as it is.

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I t hink gynecology is a scam. Men don't have to go through any of the traumatic stuff women do. We don't have to have anything inside of us until we're fifty, and even then it's one finger in the ol' a-hole and we're out the door, cancer or no cancer. Women need, at the age of thirteen, to have multiple metallic implements intrude on their most private of punctures and begin noodling around. I think, in the beginning, practitioners of suspect medicine decided they wanted to start poking around in the private places of hot young girls and derived this incredibly suspicious school of medicine to facilitate that need. FOR SHAME, GYNOS! FOR SHAME!

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It bothers the hell out of me when people say "Love it or lump it." How the hell is anyone supposed to "lump" something? Idiots.