Amusement parks are my goddamn jam.
I don’t fuck around with the little bitch rides. I go straight for the big dog badass roller coasters. I want to go so fast my skin melts off my bones. I want to go so vertical that for a moment I am technically an astronaut. I want to fear death at the hands of my 16-year-old ride attendant and his ability to check my shoulder straps.
Roller coasters are my bitch–I fear none.
There is a roller coaster in Denver, Colorado that I am convinced was designed by people who hate fun. On the surface, it looks like the most fun thing ever: a flying coaster, meaning you ride lying facedown and arms out to give you the illusion of flight.
All it gave me was the illusion that I was once a person who enjoyed life.
The first clue that something was going to be horrible was the inexplicable bar across your lower stomach. Platforms for torso, legs, but a fucking thick bar across your fart headquarters. It was uncomfortable, but hey, FUN IS ON THE WAY, RIGHT?
Nope. This lay-down bullshit fest also meant that you were face to face with the crotch of the person in front of you. Their fart headquarters is looking to zoom them straight out the b-hole and right into your screaming mouth. You know, like the worst horror movie you can imagine.
I wasn’t about to bitch out now. I convinced myself that I was a goddamn lady and I wasn’t gonna sky write with toots. I laid down, and immediately the back bar settled and pressed, driving away any hope I had about not zipping farts over Denver. The pressure was intense, but now I was strapped in–no bailing now.
We began our ascent up the hill, and the farting began. It was like hearing geese heading south, our pack of roller coaster victims and our chorus of assgas. I’ve never wished for the end of a coaster climb–that’s the build-up to the fun!–but the downslide couldn’t come fast enough. I prayed that the man in front of me was only foofin’ and hadn’t eaten the tacos that day, because I wasn’t up for forced scat/coaster porn.
Finally…finally…the hill was through, and down we went. Our bodies slid forward, which meant that the bar was now square on our bladders. All 12 riders clenched the hell up, praying to Jesus for strength. When we all thought we had finally contained the horrors we could produce, the unthinkable happened.
The man in front of me–the leader of our flying fart pack–puked. A brilliant neon streak flew below us, skirting way too close to our bellies. We flew over the remains of his gatorade and glow-stick lunch, screaming out of horror.
It was the worst experience I can actively remember. We rode the rest of the way screaming and crying and wondering what we had done to anger the God of Fun who had struck us down.
I only wish I had an out-of-body experience at that moment, so I could see 12 adults flying through the air and trying to not scream from fear so that no farts were swallowed, and then being forced to air-slip-n-slide over neon vomit.
Ever had a rough experience on a coaster or other ride?
Favorite Comment From The Last Post:
From Von: I completely lost it at “cinnamon muff”. I’ll forever think of that every time I see a red-headed woman.