Once again, I have set my expectations of a holiday weekend to heights that are completely unattainable for the level of what-the-fuck that occurs in my daily life. It was this hope and this desire for a good weekend and the annoyingly shitty events that followed that led me to help organize a William Wallace Revolt today.
Day 1: The Wax Museum
I WANTED TO GO SEE IT. You can stop being all Judgey McJudgerson now.
I did not realize just how fucking weird it would turn out to be.
Halfway through the Hall of Presidents, we noticed that 2 girls, maybe 12 years old, were following us. Not even that–one was damn near riding on my shoulders.
Noa: “Is everything okay?”
Noa: “Whoa whoa. Slow down. What’s going on?”
Girls: “There’s a museum of scary movies up ahead and we’re here alone and we’re scared.”
Noa: “OH. You want to go with us? Is that it? Okay. That’s cool.”
That makes so much more sense, because for a while, I thought they were scouting us for drug mules and that was kind of freaking me out. And who trains a 12 year old to do that? An asshat. That’s who. And they did not have an asshat escort.
So we pressed on for a while.
My hair is in a bun, to be clear.
And I punched some gingers in the face. And to be clear, yeah, I really am so pasty-white that I glow under lights.
And I learned that even wax dummies can still want to feel sexy.
And then we arrived at the Museum of Fear. Feeling rather motherly and badass all at the same time, I had Adrian walk ahead, the girls follow, and I followed them, like a cage of awesome. The girls were terrified, until they realized that they did not recognize even one movie in the entire display.
Girls: “Who is that guy?”
Adrian: “Hannibal Lecter.”
Adrian: “He’s in a movie you shouldn’t be watching yet.”
Girls: “Why is that guy all cut up?”
Adrian: “That’s Freddie Kreuger. He was burned.”
Noa: “What, seriously? You guys don’t know Freddie Kreuger?”
Noa: “That’s Terminator. Really? Arnold Schwarzenegger? Hasta la Vista?”
And on it went. Through Frankenstein, through Phantom of the Opera, through Leatherface, through Alien and Predator. Good Lord, I have never felt older in my entire life than that sad 1/2 hour spent in the dark amongst mannequins.
It was the first of several biting annoyances.
Day 2: The Safari Park
Today–this most exciting of days–we were headed to FOSSIL RIM MOTHERFUCKERS. The land of Giraffe Feeding and Dinosaurs and all kinds of awesome. I was jazzed–this was going to be so much better than yesterday. Today would be the redemption.
And for the first 1/2 hour, it was everything I could ever hope for.
Not taken with a zoom. After that encounter, I was fully sure that giraffes could fulfill my every wish. And that’s the absolute last time the tour was okay at all.
We soon realized we were booked on the tour with the John Madden of Safari Tour Directors, pointing out ever more weird and uninteresting facts in greater and greater numbers while never realizing that the microphone worked only 1/2 the time.
We were introduced to the caged cheetahs for 30 minutes in the sun with a bus full of toddlers.
Then to the first type of deer.
Then the second. Then, another. And yet another type of deer.
And then the Ostrich. The tour director, in all seriousness, called the ostrich the, “Terrorist of the Animal Kingdom.”
By this time, we have reached 2 hours in 100 degree weather in a bus full of toddlers at noon and we are not even close to the finish line, and the scary goddamn ostriches are following us.
Luckily, there were now 17 slow-moving cars in front of said bus who were endlessly fascinated with staring at fucking grass.
When trapped in the sun in a bus with nightmare creatures circling in on me, it’s hard for me not to revert into survival mode, in which I will stab anyone in my way to get off that goddamn bus and back to a water fountain.
My mind began concocting plans for the apocalyptic meltdown that was very soon to occur. Who would I shank? Who would I save? What animals could I quickly domesticate in my pursuit of freedom? Would it be okay to ride an emu? Where could I find some war paint? I was going to lead these people to their freedom from a zebra-striped hell.
“There’s a broom just hanging right there…and this bus is open-topped. I could absolutely javelin this fucker into a couple of sunroofs.”
“Wait, didn’t wildebeests kill Mufasa? ISN’T IT REASONABLE TO ASSUME THEY WOULD DO THE SAME TO TOURISTS?”
“Just…we just need to start throwing food into the sunroofs of these bastards and then they’ll be swamped and carried away by the herds.”
And at that moment, I witnessed the most spectacular thing I have ever seen–the revolt in action. First it was one parent, then several, then other tourists, who began to toss food into and at the cars of slow-moving vehicles, bogging them down in the most boring areas of the compound with the sweet smell of revenge. It was the safari revolution of the tired-toddler-parents, and it was majestic.
We arrived at the gate 10 minutes later.
They could to take our money, but they could never take our desire for vigilante safari justice.
Ever been on a bullshit tour?
—Favorite Comment From The Last Post: From Johi: “I’m glad that she doesn’t live in my town because I might *accidentally* stalk her, hoping that some of her funny can be absorbed through osmosis.”