I think it quite possibly is the happiest place. On Earth. I'm not one for superlatives. Hell, I'm not one for happiness either. But for Disneyland, I will make an exception. Yes, Mickey, perk up those ridiculous rodent ears, I am talking about you.
Keep your airport. Keep your mall and your school. I'll even let you keep your county fair. Alright, the fair and all things NASCAR can stay in the same category. People Watching 101. If mocking is your mojo, this is the ... wait for it ... happiest place on Earth. Now, this isn't the reason alone for me, but it is a start.
Mock. From sunup to sundown. From Fantasyland to Adventureland and every land in between ... this land is your land. This land is my land. From California to ... well, California. Didn't get in enough mocking yesterday or today? Don't worry, there is always Tommorow ... land. A mocker's delight.
From young to old. Check that. From VERY young to VERY old. From the baby that you shouldn't claim as your own to the Grandma Bones that you should just leave sitting on that bench to die already. No ageism here. Equal opportunity mocking.
On the subject of isms, there is no racism here either. It's a small world indeed. The huddled masses gather here. Every make, model and color. An international collection of ROYGBIVs just begging to be on the receiving end of a jeer, a sneer, a scoff and a scorn. Equal opportunity mocking. (I'm committed to fairness.)
Some people say size matters, but it doesn't. Not really. To those bigger people, I say, "You just have more mockability for me to love." Sometimes fat is funnier, but that is a good thing, right? Tell me you don't smile just a little bit when Bubba -- clad in his triple-XL, this-cost-three-dollars-more-than-the-ones-made-for-normal-sized-humans, camouflaged t-shirt -- walks up to the attendant and says, "Teacup for one, please." Alright, so size does matter. I'm just saying, while thin may be a harder target, they still make it in the sights of a mocking sniper.
Time. It is as much a commodity at this place as the subject material itself. Lines. Long lines. Lines of people. It's like a catwalk. On display. And the spring collection is just as good as the fall collection. The summer collection may be a little less clothed and a lot more disgusting. But, I don't have a bad attitude about the wait. One ride is like an hour. An hour of waiting. An hour of watching. An hour of eavesdropping. An hour of trying to take pictures with your cell phone without getting caught. An hour of facebook status updates and sharing your vacation with 632 of your closest "friends" and wondering how many of them you just might offend. An hour to test out the "It's a small world" theory and see if any of the people you just posted a picture of are "friends" of your "friends". This is what social networks were invented for, right? I saw the movie. I'm pretty sure that's right.
Some people think it is mean. The mocking. Some people don't. But more people think it's mean than those that don't. I was thinking, "Why would I ever go to Disneyland, if someone else could go Pirates-of-Caribbean on that place and post the booty on the Internet for all of us?" I was ready to quit my job, move to Anaheim, buy a season pass and a new camera. Full-time. I was ready to do this full time. 365 days of full-time mocking. Riding the rides. Pictures. Commentary. Mocking. And all of it on the Internet. I was going to do it for the less fortunate. The people out their without a hefty tax return or terminal illness to Make-A-Wish themselves to Walt's backyard. If you couldn't be at the happiest place to point your fingers, throw your head back and laugh, at least you could sit in your boxers in front of your computer, point your mickey and click. And then throw your head back in laughter.
I thought the plan was genius. But it wasn't. Or it was. Then it wasn't. See, someone else thought about this. It was called "People of the Parks." It was a website, hopelessly devoted to my cause. Keyword, "was." All I could find were remnants of this "People of Walmart" wannabe. (www.peopleofwalmart.com) I even found a heartfelt eulogy of its all-too-short life. Only the good die young. RIP.
(http://redskydisney.blogspot.com/2010/06/belated-tribute-to-people-of-park.html)
I'm happy that there might be hope for this dream job. Hope that I might one day be able to be a full-time, all-things-Mickey mocker. I wonder what domain names are available ... www.mockeymouse.com? One can only hope.
Although, maybe that job is never meant to be. Maybe this is just one of those things that is only meant to be witnessed in person. Face to face. Face to awful crack hanging out of the top of that lady's spandex pants she shouldn't have been wearing in the first place. Face to stupid people stopping to talk and figure out what the hell they are doing in a spot where they completely obstruct the flow of pedestrian traffic. Face to fat person motoring along at a Bug's Life-pace in their motorized I'm-to-heavy-to-support-my-own-body-weight mobile. Maybe words can't do this experience justice. Maybe even pictures and their thousand words aren't enough.
It is a marvel. I am sitting here writing this on memories. Vivid as they are, I am hungry for more. More of the insane, stupid, somewhat revolting people that make Disneyland what it is for a mocker like me. My heart is making a wish. That dream within me that I hope will come true. So here is my vote. My vote for a great tax return that will return me to this mockfest, material-laden place of dreams. My vote for some good cancer. The terminal variety and some good-willed foundation (which will summarily blacklist me when they read this) to take pity on me and give me the dream.
Or, you, my newfound readers. I promise not to disappoint. Pass the hat around. Fill it up. I promise you with the same binding promise of any worthwhile, wish-granting fairy of Walt's wee mind ... I will entertain you. I will share with you the treasures I find on the hollowed grounds of this plentiful park.
I miss you, Disneyland. I heart you, Disneyland.
I will return. I promise.
