taken for a ride

“Life’s a rollercoaster ride, lots of ups and downs, and then it’s over”—Marc Lee

I have never been a fan of theme parks. Droolers, long lines, cheap thrills and extreme gouges all paint a morbid picture. Oh, yes, did I mention looooonnnnnnngggggggg liiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnneeeeeeeesssssssss?

In the good old days, say twenty years ago, I obliged my kids once a year with a sojourn to King’s Dominion. Back then the game plan was simple: sneak in a flask of Jack, partake in a few obligatory rides, buy a large coke, turn the kids over to my wife; then plop down at an outdoor table, sip my spiked drink, smoke a good cigar and check out the scenery. Perfect!

But, tragically, times changed. Security is now tighter than a mosquito’s ass, and even sneaking in a mini could prove problematic. Damn those terrorists!

Anyway, my new girlfriend, Megan (a mere 34 years my junior), loves theme parks; and months ago mentioned her mother had given her two passes to King’s Dominion. “That’s groovy babe, we’ll have to go sometimes,” said I, praying the topic would fade like a fart in the wind. No such luck. The stench lingered. I intimated, diplomatically of course, that King’s Dominion was not my forte; but I’ve come to learn the hard way what Megan wants, Megan gets.

So last Friday, prey tell, began the Halloween Haunt—Howl-O-Fest night at King’s Dominion. I forgot to mention that in addition to her theme park addiction (she’s currently in therapy to treat the disorder), Halloween also happens to be her favorite holiday. Good grief, double jeopardy!

So when she mentioned the spook fest and described the weather forecast as perfect, mid-seventies and no humidity, I knew I was doomed. Anyway, the date was set in stone. We would be accompanied by one of her best friends, Michael, and his younger brother Devin, both lovers of theme parks and Halloween.

Before leaving, Megan sensed bit of anxiety in my demeanor and hurled a blood curdling caveat: “If you’re going to whine, just stay home.” I assured her I would not whine, and being an upstanding gentleman and a man of honor, I promised to avoid anything, word or deed, which could even be construed as negative. Total bullshit, of course. But I knew if I didn’t keep my zesty, razor-sharp tongue in tow, it could be next Halloween before she’d reopen the stairway to heaven. A spooky thought indeed!

She was correct concerning the weather: a gorgeous, clear and cool day awaited. We picked up Michael and Devin and arrived at the King’s Dominion around 4 pm. The half-full parking lot offered hope. Perhaps the masses had stayed home. After all, times are tough.

The plan was to start slow and then gradually pick it up. Our first ride was the kiddie rollercoaster. Short line, short thrill. Then it was on to the Backlot Stunt Coaster, where according to the literature, you become a “Hollywood stunt driver behind the wheel of your own tricked-out stunt car.” Whoopee! It took 27 minutes in line for 1 minute thrill. A step forward indeed, but to regurgitate a Jim Carrey line from Liar Liar: “I’ve had better.”

The next ride, The Crypt, piqued my interest. It is described “an adventure filled with fire water and a few flips.” Michael said he would pass, mentioning something about “equilibrium” problems. Devin followed suit. So Megan and I, the fearless rollercoaster warriors we are, jumped in line. A mere 17 minutes later we sat staring ahead, locked and loaded.

Once everyone was tucked in, the massive, mechanical device rose slowly. Impending doom took hold. A brief hesitation at the top left just enough time for me to ask myself: “What the fuck am I doing up here?” But it was too late. A rapid decent flipped us head over heals flailing through steam, flames and water geysers. Thank god for an empty stomach! It was great! There was only one problem, however; to keep you legs sufficiently separated the seats are designed with a hump in the middle; so every flip created a painful ball bashing. Ouchy!

But, hey, suck it up! We’re on a fucking mission, and the Baby Jesus is watching!

So it was on to the much-hyped Volcano, billed as the “only coaster in the world to shoot you straight out of a raging volcano.” Oh boy, I thought, the ride of the day! I figured who in their right mind would stand in hour-long line for a sucky ride? But I soon discovered the length of the line doesn’t necessarily translate into the quality of the ride. Anyway, we shot out of the mountain at an incredible speed, but before I’d blinked twice the 40 second ride ended. Lame! They should rename the ride Premature Ejaculation.

We’d had enough. Nearly three hours had elapsed and Megan and I were famished. We hit a concession stand and ordered fries with cheese and a small drink. Price: $13.50. You heard it correct fans: thirteen fucking dollars and fifty fucking cents. GOUGE CITY!!! Oh how they stick it up your ass! Anyway, the fries rocked, and both of us felt somewhat revitalized.

The evening gave way to goblins, witches, vampires, smoke, a sorry version of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue and hordes of park goers that Michael aptly described as the “Walmart” crowd. So it was on to the haunted houses. Megan and friends were pros, but I’d never done haunted houses with live spooks. The first stop, Medieval Macabre, was dark, cavernous and creepy—every twist and turn was greeted by a monster screaming in your face. Megan clung desperately! I couldn’t breathe. But by and by the shtick grew tiresome. It was too rapid fire. I emerged with a headache. The Slaughter House, however, proved a step up in class. Improved lighting accentuated the blood and gore, and longer intervals between terror taunts heightened anticipation. Moreover, a chorus of blood curdling screams from our predominately female contingent added flavor.

Camp Killauee, our last stop, proved a disaster. The line was scariest thing I’d seen all day, and it wasn’t until an hour and fifteen minutes later that we finally entered the scare zone. “This better be good,” I mumbled to Megan. It wasn’t! Several paces into the camp we were greeted by a skinny, camp counselor with long, grey hair (a piss poor Beetlejuice imitation). Megan’s attempted conversation fell flat, as the dunderhead counselor proved very slow at the switch. Anyway, we plodded through the no thrills, no frills, camp which concluded with a chainsaw killer chasing us out. If only he’d hacked me to pieces—anything to put me out of my misery!

The camp killed all momentum, and it was getting late. It was time to go. Before leaving Megan and I treated ourselves to a funnel cake—a small, pizza-shaped, fried cake smothered in chocolate and powdered sugar. Yummy!

I slept most of the ride home assuming I would need lots of energy; for surely my good behavior would be rewarded in bed. Wishful thinking! After dropping off the boys and driving back to the house, Megan offered up hug and informed me she would be spending the night at home.

Oh well. As the great Sam Clemmons wrote: “No good deed will go unpunished.” And so it goes.

P.S. Actually, I had a pretty good time. I forgot to describe the ride where Megan sat in my lap and I nearly got a boner. Also, Michael kept us in stitches; he’s hilarious; and I can’t wait for his much heralded Halloween bash!