Magnificent Moms–Vodka Mom

It was his BALL!! It got all big and purple!







Shortly after I began churning out this drivel in December of 2009, I ran across a blog titled, Vodka Mom. Any blog with booze in it’s name has to be worth checking out, so I did. And I laughed. Kind of hard. And then I started following her.
The recently divorced kindergarten teacher is a BlogHer regular. and she runs frequent posts at Vodka Mom. She blogs in between the grueling task of grading finger paintings and paper bag puppets. She’s a well respected Mom Blogger, having made the Babble Top 50.
Vodka Mom answered a few of my random questions and I think her answers gives insight to who Vodka Mom really is. When you’re done, please click on the VODKA MOM link at the bottom of the post. She’s worth your time. I’ll vouch for her.

Not that I give a shit about labels, but you’ve recently gone from Mom Blogger to Single Mom Blogger. That’s gotta be difficult. Was it?
It was one the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life. (And I’ve done some pretty hard stuff.) I finally realized that I am the only one who is responsible for my own happiness. I want my kids to know that each person deserves respect, honesty and affection. It’s up to each of us to make sure that this is what we get.
I am doing this for them, but more importantly for me. I’m worth it.

In all your years teaching Kindergarten, you have to have some bitchin stories. Give me the Top Three.

Top THREE? Oh my Lord, I don’t even know where to begin. The ones I remember most? I’ll give it a shot.
• The first year I was teaching kindergarten I was giving a phonics test to each child to determine where they “were” in terms of ability. I pulled them aside one at a time. I pointed to pictures and asked Jack to tell me what they were. He looked at the third one and said,
“What the HELL is that?”
He looked at me- and I looked at him.
“Did you say what I thought you said?” I asked.
“Yep.” He nodded.
Well then. How about you don’t say that in school. Okay? Okay.
Next picture.
• That next month (still my first year in kindergarten) I had ALL four classes sitting ready for a movie. One of my little girls raised her hand an I SHUSHED the WHOLE GROUP to get them quiet for her question. She mumbled something, and I couldn’t hear her. I made her stand up and repeat it. She screamed, “My VAGINA IS RED AND ITCHY!”
“Um. Okay. Well, alrighty, go to the nurse then. “
3. (And one of my all time fav.’s.) Shedaziah: “My brother’s eye is swollen and we don’t know why.”
Ryan: “ My brother was swollen one time in his private parts (pointing to his crotch). It was his BALL!! It got all big and purple! It looked like a big purple grape!
Me: Uh. Okay. Well. Sharing is over..
Do you have a legit fear that your kids will come into your room and kill you? Is it a cry for help or is it simple humor?
I think I’m done worrying about that. I’ve written just about ALL I CAN WRITE and they still love me. I don’t get it.
When did Vodka Mom hit the web and how did it start? [Please don’t say, “Well I was drinking a martini and… unless that’s how it really happened.]
I was writing a column for the local paper, this was about five years ago, when a mother of an old student of mine told me that she was a mommy blogger! She had been reading my column, loved it, explained blogging to me. I got online and started reading! I was hooked.
I had always written- mostly at night, or when the mood struck me. I have tons of envelopes, scraps of paper, and journals filled with thoughts and stories from over the years. She helped me start my blog, and I was given an amazing gift. I finally, FINALLY had somewhere to write about my thoughts, stories, anecdotes, fears and dreams. It filled a whole in my life that I didn’t even know existed- and I’ll forever be thankful to her!!
What has Vodka Mom got in the pipe. [Be warned that if you say, “crack” I will not only publish it, but send the link to every school in, uh, wherever you live. Just say no to drugs, yo.]
I am working furiously on “The Book of Frank.” I am sending to an agent friend of mine- and if he passes on it then I am going to self-publish and e-book! Oh, and I’m also doing this little, tiny thing called a JOB!!
Also, I am basically working on making it through EACH DAY alive. I pray for my children, and I also pray that one day I might find the love of my life.
If not, I am working on loving myself. That, to be sure, is my number one priority.

BONUS QUESTION:
Other than using the word “gotta” did I make any grammatical errors in my questions?
You are incredible. I am honored that you thought of me

My Video 10/28/11 at OneTrueMedia.com

I regret many things in life, but never will I regret meeting you, for if I hadn't met you I would never have known what loving and being loved really like..

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Douche of the Week–Cliff Harris

Way to do your school proud, bro. Go Ducks.

I’m gonna cut straight to the heart of the matter. University of Oregon cornerback Cliff Harris is one ignorant son of a bitch. This Duck is fucked. [Did ya like what I did there? He's a U of O Duck. And he's fucked. For real.]
Basically, these are the three paragraphs that were the difference in picking this week’s winner. Any one of the three makes him a winner, but dude hit the trifecta and he goes straight to the back of the class.
Oregon cornerback Cliff Harris was suspended Monday after he was pulled over for several infractions, including driving on a suspended license and driving without insurance.
Then we find out why he got pulled over.
Eugene police said that Harris was stopped on a city street Monday afternoon after an officer noted he wasn’t wearing a seatbelt, for which he was also cited.
Buckle up bro. It’s the law. Rewind a few months.
Harris, an All-American who broke up 23 passes and averaged 18.8 yards per punt return last season, was also ticketed in June by Oregon State Police for driving 118 mph on Interstate 5 on a suspended license.
What a moron, huh? 118 M.P.H. on I-5 on a suspended license, then he does it again. This guy should probably be selective who he breeds with. If Cliff has the game people say he does, then he can hire himself a driver when he gets to the NFL. Until then maybe he can hit up a booster for a chauffeur. Or a bus pass. One things for sure; this dude brings down the team I.Q. Bigtime. Way to do your school proud, bro. Go Ducks.

Secret Agent Man

Grab a cocktail and enjoy.                      The other day I’m at home, typing away on my keyboard when the phone rings–completely interrupting my boredom.. I pick it up and a man with a creepy voice asks for my brother. I immediately smell sales call, so I start screening. This is often the high point of my day. I find that kind of sad. “May I ask who’s calling?” I politely said. “This is Agent Richardson.” Agent Richardson? Is he fucking kidding me. Agent my ass. “What agency are you with, Agent Richardson?” I inquired with a full dose of fake interest. There was a long pause and he said, “Winters International.”
I’ve been feeling especially feisty lately, so I immediately responded. “Wow. That must be wicked cool. Is that one of those covert agencies like ISIS or ODIN, or one of the bullshit ones like the CIA and NCIS. C’mon dude,” I asked with an overdose of sarcasm. “Do you get to kill people? Do you get cool gadgets like James Bond and Sterling Archer?”
There was again a long silence, but I could hear background noise so I knew he hadn’t yet hung up. “Hey secret agent man,” I said with all the seriousness I could muster. “Take us off the top secret scam list you have. Peace out.”
I don’t want to toot my own horn, but that is the way to handle sales calls. Seriously. What kind of an agent is this guy? Is he a real estate agent? A sales agent? Maybe he’s an agent of the devil. But he was certainly no agent of the law.
My four-year-old nephew would call bullshit on this guy. Well, he would if my brother and sister-in-law let me teach him crap like that. But they don’t. Probably because they’re good parents. I digress.
I get what these people are doing. I know they have quotas and overweight asshole sales managers who spend half the day firing up Camel non-filters and the other half sweating stains into their chairs and the carpet underneath the desk. I know their life most likely sucks some major, major ass.
I worked for a collection agency, so I get all the pressure this guy is under, but telling the gatekeeper that you’re a fucking agent? That takes some cajones. That’s someone who won’t even come close to making his goal, but he’s gonna try every shady thing he can to somehow not get fired.
This is Alec Baldwin yelling at Jack Lemon in Glengarry Glen Ross. This is, “Third prize is you’re fired.” This dude’s life fucking blows. And I’m truly sorry for that. I really am, but don’t start off our relationship with straight up bullshit, Agent Richardson. That ain’t how it works, playah. If you want to talk to the man in charge, you got to be nice to me.
Especially when I’m on my man period. When I’m not, I’ll just hang up on your ass, but when I’m on the dude rag, I’ll screw with you a bit.
Let me leave you with a fun way to jump start your weekend.

Google Me

daddy I’m a hooker.





All things are spelled and grammerized as they were in the Google search.


If you blog, chances are you pop up in some pretty weird searches. Now imagine what you pop up in when you have the word, “Sex” in the blog title. Then imagine also having the word, “Dad” in the title. I’ll be straight with you. There’s some sick shit that people search for at night. The majority of it comes from Eastern Europe and the Middle East, though I do get my fair share of scary ones from Georgia, Alabama and Arkansas.
What you see listed below is a weekend’s worth of Google searches. This past weekend, to be specific. This is how people occupied their time between noon on Friday and 9:47 AM on Sunday. Go ahead and assume that the big winners were anything that had any or all of the following words, in various (and shocking) combinations: Sex, dad, daughter, father. Most added the words, “And”, or, “With” in their searches. Hidden amongst the weird ones are some really funny ones. Enjoy.

amy grant. Daddy sex. blink 182 nurse. sex with sex doctor sex. sex dad. sex with dad. i love boobs. enema. Dedy sex. soccer. prety breasts. white trash backyard. drunk woman. drunk old lady. I’m on my period. Sofia vergara nipple. world’s best breast. handjob. German chick. father daughter sex. kotex. Buddy Jesus. Amy Grant whore. yashi guzel sex. pizza al davis. red forman. heather locklear no panties. Chris daughtry. Raiders black hole. Miller Lite man card. mexicanhookers. plump bikini. hookers dad sex. daughter naked stories. getting down. hot nurses. old hottie hottie. fantasy sex. picture with cool baby. Jack Daniels. sex in cabo. salma hayek ass. archer sex. enema of the state. Mexican hookers. Motel 6 sucks tits.
That gets us through Friday night. Tomorrow is a new day.
dad sex. Archer sex. man card. getting laid cabo. Cabo sex. where to get laid in cabo. Josie Stevens tits. sex with daddy. white trash dip. virgin at 37. man card revoke. South Dakota. find prostitutes in cabo. aunt flo. Dropkick murphys. Daddy phone sex. Dick Booster. black hole. soccer. cavity search. daddy I’m a hooker. single dad double standard. daddy needs to bone. NFL breast cancer gloves. Iraq sex. 12 hot dads. spuds mckenzie. bald is beautiful. sexy nurses. Blink enema.

All told, there were upwards of 100 searches that referenced having sex with one’s own father. As mentioned above, the vast majority came from India, Pakistan, Nepal, Greece, Poland, Slovakia, Italy, Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Georgia, Alabama and Arkansas. Occasionally from Canada. Mainly the plains provinces. Must be something about being home alone on those cold winter nights.
“daddy I’m a hooker”, came from a New York City suburb. What a shock. I hope she (or he) found something more helpful than my blog. And that daddy didn’t have a stroke when little Cindy or Bobby dropped the news that they’re a prostitute.
I want to hear from you. What’s the weirdest or funniest search have you had for your blog? Have you searched for something you thought was very PG, but Google led you to places that were more XXX? Which of these were your favorites? Tell me about it.

Jesus and the Tijuana hooker

How much is too much for good pussy?

Let me be perfectly clear about one thing. I’m talking about a Guatemalan  friend named Jesus–not Jesus Christ. I’m sure the Lord would spend time with a Tijuana prostitute, but I have a hard time believing that the Son of God would pay for her services. Every weekend. For the past two months.
I’m not knocking the world’s oldest profession, because it’s a woman’s choice how she wants to make a living, but I have to believe that Jesus (pronounced Hey-Zuse) could find a perfectly suitable ho without driving more than two hours and crossing an international border. I’m not an expert on So. Cal. prostitutes, but I’m pretty sure he could find someone in the same genre as the one he’s currently banging. One would have to think, right?
Let me give you a little background. Jesus is a porter who has rented a room from my friend’s house for the past five years. My friend is a checker and having a him around was helpful to her. Jesus has been acting kind of loco lately and my friend finally got tired of his act and on September 1 told him he needed to find another place to live by October 1.
Jesus didn’t really spend much time looking for a place, so my friend found him a place to live, and he will be moving there later in the week (obviously past the October 1 deadline). Now that you realize who I’m talking about, let’s go back to this morning.
I arrived to work about 7:00 and started doing my thing. Jesus normally rolls in around 5:30 or 5:45 (though he always insists that he’s there by 5:00) and around 7:00, I asked another friend if she knew where Jesus was.
I was told that Jesus called yesterday and said he would be in later today, but no explanation as to where he was or what he was doing. Not that it’s any of my business.
My friend tells our manager that she will call Jesus to see when he will be in, and Leonel (an employee) says that Jesus probably won’t answer the phone because he’s in Tijuana with his girlfriend. “What the fuck are you talking about?” I asked. “Jesus has a girlfriend?”
Leonel went on to explain that he’s been going to TJ every weekend for the past couple of months to see this girl. “OK, seriously,” I asked as soon as the manager was gone. “Jesus has a girlfriend?” Leonel said, “Well. She’s actually a prostitute, but he calls her his girlfriend.” He went on to explain that he met her in a bar and enjoyed her company a couple of months ago, and now he goes down almost every week to spend time with her.
“Dude,” I said to Leonel. “What does this chick look like?” (Not that it matters, but I imagine her to be fairly hideous.) Leonel isn’t sure, but agrees with me that she’s probably been beaten with the ugly stick. Then again, maybe she’s hot-ish and she sees Jesus as her “Sugar Papi.”
Let me give you a brief description of Jesus, so you know the whole situation. He’s a nice enough guy, but he’s as lazy as I’ve ever seen. Jesus stands 5′ 1″ and has a beer gut that is mas grande. After three hip surgeries, one leg is about three inches shorter than the other, which means he wears special shoes to compensate. He says he can’t lift anything and gets people to do everything for him, yet he seemingly has no trouble carrying a case of Corona from the car to the table out in the driveway. Go figure
I guess I should say, he’s supposed to wear special shoes. He doesn’t always do so and when he doesn’t, it’s interesting to watch. I remember one summer day, walking in and seeing my homeboy going shirtless and in flip flops. I watched as he walked across the room to grab something from a shelf and I noticed his C cups bouncing as he limped.
“Amigo,” I shouted across the room. “Donde esta your zapatos? And your shirt?” He told me that it was really hot and that was the reason he was wearing only shorts and a smile. I begged him to please at the very least put his shirt back on. “No one needs to see that shit,” I explained.
If you think I’m a dick for laughing at the way he looks, please relax. I’m no George Clooney and I readily admit that. I don’t take my shirt off in public because no one needs to see my shit either. It’s like how people of African-American descent can use the “N” word with each other and get away with it. Dudes who have a few pounds to lose are allowed to rip on other dudes who need to lose the gut.
My friend called him on his cell phone. She heard music and a bunch of chicas laughing in the background and Jesus never said where he was, just that he wasn’t going to be here today. “Probably tomorrow is more better,” he said. Yeah. I bet it is more better.
At this point I looked at Leonel and said, “C’mon. Tell me what’s going on.” It turns out that Jesus has been banging this ho for the past couple of months and that he is even paying for her cell phone and an apartment in TJ. I’m not sure what an apartment in Tijuana goes for, but I would assume it’s pretty cheap.
As funny as this tale is, it’s also kind of sad. Jesus is no sugar daddy. He sleeps on a couch at his sister’s house and doesn’t make a lot of money because his work schedule is erratic at best, It’s money out the door.
I’m sitting in the break room, mulling this situation over and I keep asking myself the same question. “How much is too much for good pussy?” Also, “How good does the sex have to be if he’s willing to drive 2 1/2 hours down to Tijuana, then sit in a huge line to re-cross the border?” There are times that it takes two hours just to get through the line and back into Los Estados Unidos.
I walked into my manager’s office and said, “So, if Jesus has any more people ask for him today, can I say he’s not here because he’s in TJ banging his prostitute?” I was asked politely to NOT say that, and my assistant manager commented, “I wonder if he’s actually getting anything.”
That’s a good point. What if the skank is playing him? I don’t doubt that the possibility exists, but if it’s true, that’s some cold blooded shit. What if she’s out there, allowing anyone with cash to stick it to her, then doesn’t give it up to him. I can only hope for his sake that my assistant manager is wrong and that he’s at least getting some action for all the dinero he’s spending.
I’m also disappointed that Jesus never said anything to me about these trips. I’ve been wanting a new Baja surfer hoodie/poncho thing and he’s in Tijuana every freakin weekend. Also, a case of Victoria would be nice to have as well. What the hell is he holding out on me for?


Excuse me for a moment. I need to get my bro to call him back and see if he can get me one on his way out. I’m sure he can grab one from the multitude of vendors he will encounter as he sits in line at the border.



P.S. I think the ‘chick” in the middle might actually have a penis. I’m not sure, but I wouldn’t be surprised.

Subway and Double D’s

“Hey. How’s it goin?” Is rhetorical. We really don’t care.



It’s 10:06 on Wednesday night and I’m sitting at the counter in my hovel with my laptop open, iTunes blaring Stricken by Disturbed through my headphones and with a Subway sandwich on my left side. At my right is a mostly-full Diet Coke and behind that is a bag of boysenberry almond granola. Why the granola? I don’t know. I guess I never put it away.
Let me start the story earlier this afternoon…
I started thinking about what topic the first one would be. Baseball playoffs are under way, but that didn’t sound right. Nor did football or the NHL. I started thinking about ways to make it easy to insert innuendo into the conversation, so I thought of, Best Female Athletes. I quickly scrapped that idea, since it’s hard to judge, considering the talents of the athletes are so different.
Then I thought, “What about the three hottest female athletes?” I like that one, so I started thinking. I pulled Jennie Finch right off the bat. But then I struggled. “Uh,” I thought. “Gina Carano.” She’s a MMA fighter and formerly of the recent version of American Gladiators. She often looks a little rough, but she cleans up pretty nice. And she sports a nice fake set of cans.
I couldn’t think of a third, so I said, “Jesus. It would be easier to come up with a list of ones I wouldn’t want to do, rather than find three hot ones.” Suddenly a light bulb appeared above my head and I immediately went to the show outline and added:
Three athletes I wouldn’t bone if they were the last chicks on earth.
1. Serena Williams (Venus comes as a package deal)
2. Anikka Sorenstam
3. Katie Smith (the WNBA chick who looks like Shawn White)
Bonus* Martin Navratilova
Three I would do:
1. Jennie Finch
2. Gina Carano
3.

I’m pretty classy, huh? Anyway. I Google’d “Sexy female athletes” and came up with a number of tennis players and an eerily large amount of gymnasts. That was a little creepy to see. I also found a couple of surfers and beach volleyball players. I started looking through the list and one popped out at me. Almost literally.
The picture at the top of the blog post is of Simona Halep. Ms. Halep is a professional tennis player, currently ranked #43 in the world. Until two years ago, she sported those bad boys. For the record, they were 34DD. After breast reduction surgery in 2009, they became a 34C. Still not a bad rack, by any means.
If you were a lesbian and playing this chick, I would guess that you might be a bit distracted every time she hit a ball. Or reached up to serve. Or moved at all. Or bent over to tie her shoe. Hell, if you were standing above her, all you’d have to do is look straight down. My point is that those are amazingly huge for any woman, let alone a tennis player.
I realized I still hadn’t put a #1 on the outline, so I quickly penciled in Simona. While I was sad to see the big guns go, I respect her reasons for doing so. If there is such a thing as Goddess of the WTA, please let her at least move into the Top 10. She sacrificed a lot in hopes of improving her game. Plus, if she’s in the Top 10, she’s on TV more. Her face could use a touch up (then again, so could mine), but she’s got a pretty rockin’ bod.
I was on a high and was hungry. I pulled in to Subway, which is where the conclusion to this gripping tale takes place.
I walk in the door and the kid behind the counter says, “Good evening sir. Welcome to Subway.” I hate being called, “Sir” because it makes me feel old and like I should be responsible, and lets be honest. Who wants that pressure, right? I blew off the, “Sir” thing, looked up and casually said, “Hey. Hows it goin?” Almost immediately, this guy starts telling me about his chem class. Like I give a shit.
He rambled on for about 30 seconds and finally paused for air. I immediately jumped in and changed the subject. “Dude,” I said. “Are you guys really open til midnight?” He told me they were and that he really didn’t like when it was busy late at night. He yammered on about people coming in late, then staying til closing and walking over freshly mopped floors. I think. I really wasn’t paying any attention.
“Wow,” I replied. “That fuckin blows.” The girl who was was, “Working” with my chatty friend, turned around and assured me that it really did suck. A lot. There was probably a joke or two I could have made about blowing and sucking late night at Subway, but she was mostly unattractive and I thought there was a 50/50 chance she was under 18, so I refrained.
The guy had taken the counter off and was wiping away all the crap that accumulates under there during the dinner rush and asked if I would mind waiting a moment until he finished cleaning. “Well I don’t want you making my sandwich on that thing,” I replied with a touch of sarcasm. He didn’t seem to understand that I was cool with it, so I simply assured him that I could wait.
He finally finished, washed his hands, and asked which of their, “Delicious freshly-baked breads” I would like this evening. I said I wanted the Italian herb and cheese, but he informed me they were out. So I took the jalapeno cheddar stuff instead. I told him I’d like a foot long spicy Italian and he noted (with a bit of sorrow) that my sandwich would have tasted great on Italian herb and cheese. No shit. That’s why I order it that way.
The more I looked at him, the more I think this kid has an obsession with both GLEE and Justin Bieber. He was creepy in a wanna-be boy band kind of way. He asked if I wanted it toasted and I informed him that I would LOVE to be toasted. Again, he had no clue what I was really saying. I truly weep for America’s youth. I really do.
At this point I felt like it was time to eject. I had quite a writers buzz working and I wasn’t going to let some kid still searching for his first kiss to kill it for me. Every time he began talking, I interrupted him. The first time was with, “And banana peppers.” The second was. “Some oil and vinegar too.” Finally I just said, “Can you just wrap it up, please. I gotta roll.”
I then drove to my hovel, where I have been sitting and writing ever since. I have one final thought and it’s directed to anyone working late night at a gas station, convenience store or fast food establishment. “Hey. How’s it goin?” Is rhetorical. We really don’t care. But It does make for an interesting blog post.

To my daughter

There will be many storms in life, it's how you weather each storm that makes you the person you are and will become. I love you Pumpkin.

Drama Queen’s visit to the Scary Farm

The Halloween Haunt experience isn’t complete until someone goes to jail for being a dickwad.

If you’ve lived in So. Cal for any length of time, you know that October means Knott’s Berry Farm’s Halloween Haunt is in full swing. I’ve been going to this thing on and off since the 80′s when it was known as Knott’s Scary Farm. It’s pretty rad. They’ve got 13 mazes set up throughout the park and people dressed as monsters and zombies roaming around attempting to scare the shit out of you.
When she was 10, Drama Queen kept bugging for me to take her, but I wouldn’t. Not yet. The park recommends the event for those 13 and up. After they bone you for $20 to park your damn car about three quarters of a mile away, they make you empty your pockets of metal at the gate and wand you to make sure you’re not bringing any weapons in with you. I’m down with that, but the security dude doing our search made me take off my hat so he could feel under the band inside to make sure I wasn’t bringing any drugs or razor blades into the park.
I never thought about hiding anything under the band, but now I know if I ever have the need to carry a razor blade with me, that I can hide it in there without being detected You never know when you might need to cut someone, right?
We made our way into the park and I noticed that the crowd was a nice mix of white trash, high school punks and wanna-be gangsters along with a few normal folks and some creepy old people who didn’t fit in at all. This was gonna be a fun night.
Back in the day my friends and I would arrive a bit early and, “Tailgate” outside the car. After a (very strong) Jack and Coke in a 32 or 42 oz cup, I was ready to properly enjoy the evening. I felt it was inappropriate to tailgate with my daughter. Not that she’s never seen me drink Jack and Coke, but since she’s now in collage, I thought I shouldn’t show her how one gets easily hammered before entering a theme park. I do have my moments of good parenting. So I entered the park completely alcohol free and ready to have a fun night with my daughter. We decided to turn left inside the gates and start with the first maze we saw, then head towards the back of the park. It was getting dark as we made our way through Ghost Town. As we walked down the fog filled street, I heard the tell-tale sound of metal scraping on concrete and waited for what I knew was coming next. About three seconds later, a zombie slid right up to my daughter, popping back to his feet in front of her and yelled, “Aaaaaaahhhhhhhh.” I swear to God I thought she was going to wet herself right there. I was laughing as the zombie skulked away, looking for another person to freak out. “What the hell?” She yelled. “Why are you laughing?’ I tried to stop, and said, “Because he just scared the crap out of you. Duh.” She glared at me and said, “That’s not funny.”
I reminded her of our earlier conversation, where I warned her there are zombies with steel knee pads who will slide down the street, scaring you.” It was her fault for not being better prepared. We made the left at the wooden roller coaster Ghost Rider, ending up in Gypsy Camp and Lockdown–The Asylum.
We walked right in and about 10 inches inside the door, she grabbed my left arm and proceeded to tug. “What’s the problem?” I asked with a laugh. “You’re not scared, are you?” She said she wasn’t (she lied) but that she wanted to grab my arm. I said she could, but not to yank. I liked my arm right where it was.
We rounded the first corner, where a monster popped out in front of her. She yelled, and I looked at the guy and casually said, “Whassup playah?” Drama Queen said I was an idiot, so I attempted to unlock her grip from my arm. She wasn’t having any of it, and we continued through the maze. As the name indicates, this was supposed to be inside an insane asylum, so the people were acting especially loco.
We finished the maze with only minor bruising on my arm and immediately entered, Delerium. Once again, people popped out at her and once again, she attempted to yank my arm out of the socket. I have no clue what the theme of this one was supposed to be, but it freaked Drama Queen out and I thought it was cool.
There were a few more females in this maze, but I noticed the distinct lack of visible skin on the female zombies and monsters. This got me to thinking. I paid good money to come to this theme park and I should be able to see zombie cleavage. I’m not saying it’s a right, but I think for $36, a little boobie isn’t too much to ask for. Can I get an amen?
As we were eating dinner at home, Drama Queen mentioned that a couple of her friends went the previous weekend and said that one maze was all about John the Reaper. I somehow managed to not spit spaghetti and meatballs across the kitchen, and asked, “You mean, Jack the Ripper?” She didn’t skip a beat and said, “Yeah. Him.” Fast forward a couple of hours to when we entered, Terror of London.
As we approached the entrance, I asked a park employee if this was the maze with John The Reaper. I got a weird look from the dude and D.Q. told me I was an idiot. Oh. OK. She’s the one who dropped, “John The Reaper”, but I’m the idiot? I don’t think so.
She once again yanked on my arm and we went through the maze. About halfway through, I got sick of her assaulting me and told her that she had to do the next maze without grabbing on to me.
We made our way into the Doll Factory (a maze with mainly female characters) and I noted that the necklines were slightly lower, yet nowhere near slutty. I hid my disappointment and as we exited the maze, my daughter was actually laughing. We went through Dia De Los Muertos (in 3-D), then Fallout Shelter, Cornstalkers, End Games, and Virus Z without her grabbing onto me for support..
As we headed towards the back of the park, Drama Queen asked a security guy what the fastest way to Uncle Bobo’s Big Top Of The Bizarre, was. As she was doing this, a zombie walked past me. “Yo, Slick,” I asked. “How’s it going?” He replied. I informed him that it was going just fine and asked if he would mind scaring, “The redhead in the blue sweatshirt.” He said he would and quietly walked up behind her.
As she turned around, there was this 6′ 3″ zombie yelling, then dropping to his knees right in front of her face. The look she had was priceless and I’m sorry to say I didn’t think about videotaping the moment. I was laughing my ass off when she walked up and smacked me. “Are you laughing because that monster scared me?” She asked. “No,” I said as I snorted. “I’m laughing because I asked him to go scare you.”
As we headed towards the clown maze, I saw some douche in his 30′s getting handcuffed by the Buena Park police and I knew that my night was now complete. As a whole, the crowd was mellow and it was a great night, but let’s he honest; the Halloween Haunt experience isn’t complete until someone goes to jail for being a dickwad.
We finished the maze, then hit Slaughterhouse, before beginning the long journey back to the car. As we walked, my daughter noted that I didn’t need to keep asking the zombies in Slaughterhouse, if I could, “Get a couple racks of baby backs.”
“It’s not funny,” she said. “It’s stupid.” I reminded her that I bought the, “Damn tickets”, which gives me the right to say all the goofy shit I want. Goofy shit is what being a dad is all about.
She rolled her eyes and asked if I would take her to the Queen Mary for their Dark Harbor event. I like the Queen Mary one, because the mazes go through parts of the ship that are said to be haunted by actual ghosts and shit. I told her I would think about it, but that I wasn’t sure she was ready to get the ship scared out of her. The Queen Mary advertises, “A trio of She-Demons”, which sounds promising. I’ll be sure to let you know what I decide.