I have had more fun in car accidents than on roller coasters. Tell my friends this, and they look at me like I’m some sort of pusillanimous pariah. And when I explain that I loathe sweltering in line under the unforgiving sun for 50 minutes surrounded by assholes in tank tops and screaming children that aspire to be assholes in tank tops, just to be jerked around for three minutes on some death ride maintained by a crew with excessive acne and obvious deficiencies in the English language, and all of a sudden I’m not just a complaining borderline homo: I’m a joy-killing bigot. Well suck it bitches. If the operations staff is a bunch of just paroled convicts who look like they just wandered off the set of “To Catch a Predator,” I’m going to pass.
So, fuck Johnny Depp and his pirate-themed rides. I thought there’d be rum and whores, not white trash and fanny packs. If you want it fast and upside-down, babe, all we need is four shots, a tray of ice cubes, and a headboard. You can stand in the sun for an hour beforehand if that’s what you call foreplay. If I really want a thrill, I’ll get blind-drunk and run down the G-dubs Bridge in my undershorts, again. It won’t cost $25, and at least my vomit will smell like Scotch, not cotton candy.
Or maybe I just scare easily.