We could have just went to Chuck E. Cheese and saved the money.
We just got back from our week-long jaunt to Florida...
(state motto: "You WILL drive like sh*t")
...and the associated theme parks:
4) Michael Jackson’s Anal Exploration Park
(there is a maximum height limit to this last park...luckily, I made it)
When recently asking my kids what was the best part of the trip, they said this:
Daughter: "The pool at the house."
Son: "The pirate ship."
You little sh*ts.
The pirate ship.
...not feeding the dolphins...
...not becoming a trained Jedi...
...not even breakfast at f*cking Cracker Barrel...
Just the pool and a pirate ship.
When my son says, "pirate ship," he's actually referring to a ship at SeaWorld that is, in fact, a f*cking playground.
...just like at Chuck E. Cheese.
Sometimes, I just prefer animal crackers to having children.
I’ll break my experience up into a couple of blog entries…just so you’re not overwhelmed in my joy.
The House of Blah:
First off, let me tell you that we rented a house in Florida.
Being an architect in Florida has to be one of the easiest goddamn jobs in the planet...
(besides being the security guard at the amusement park…which has an “intelligence and eyesight optional” policy).
A house in Florida has one of three designs...
...and is either the color peach or beige.
It's like looking at a giant wall of ass.
Every house looks the same, and each house is approximately 5 feet away from the next house…
This distance includes the back yard...
...where your neighbor is gleefully sitting on your patio enjoying your oranges.
I believe this is why my house came with a free taser.
It's hard to tell the houses apart in Florida.
So much so, in fact, that one day I brought the trash to the end of the driveway...
...and walked back into someone else’s house.
(On a related note, the charge for “breaking and entering” in Florida only carries a fine for first offense...I also found out that the Sheriff's office takes the Discover card).
I also happened to walk out of the shower one afternoon...
...where my wife was in the same bathroom getting ready.
The door on the back of the house, that entered the bathroom (not sure why) was wide open…
...as my wife wanted to clear the steam from the room.
I was standing there, naked...staring out the back door.
Me: “Um…is that the back door to the house you have open?”
Wife: “Yeah, why?”
Me: “You realize that is open to our backyard, right?”
Me: “Do you realize that there are houses RIGHT THERE?”
Wife (squinting in the darkness at the house 15 feet away, with a fat lady in the pool staring at me): “Oh…look at that.”
Me: “I’ll go put on a towel.”
(I hear a chorus of "boo's" echoing from the other houses).
Our house didn’t have a key – it had a combination lock on the door.
Of course, on our very first night back to the house, not ONLY do we forget to put a light on outside...
...but we also forget the f*cking combination to the lock.
This required me to park my car in the road, facing the house with the lights on high beam, and yell out random combinations of numbers.
This does not help.
Ten minutes into the adventure, it comes to me:
Me: “Wait a minute…are we even AT the right house?”
Word to Florida builders: USE A DIFFERENT F*CKING COLOR.
Thank you, jackasses.
The Garmin with Short-Term Memory Loss:
My father-in-law brought along his Garmin Navigation unit.
This came in as useful as asking a double-amputee prostitute for a hand job.
(don't do this...she'll just take your money then try to use her feet...which is satisfying, but your penis ends up smelling funnier than usual)
The very first time we used the Garmin to get somewhere, it drove us to a dead-end street and thought our destination was the dumpster sitting at the end.
Knowing the location of this dumpster will be helpful when it comes time to throw you in the f*cking thing.
The second time we used it to get to a Walmart (yes, even alligators need to buy cheap clothes), it drove us to a residential development.
Me: “MORE BEIGE HOUSES?!?!”
Father-in-law: “I don’t think there’s a Walmart in here.”
Me: “Maybe it thought we were looking for a guy named Wally Mart.”
The third time we used it to get to an ice-cream place, it proudly announced:
“Arriving at your destination.”
I was under a highway overpass at the time.
I looked for a guy selling ice cream under the bridge…
...but there was none.
Thank you, Garmin.
I didn't really want ice cream, anyway...
...and was really more in the mood for an offramp.
...where was that dumpster again?
Dont' forget to check me out at Scrivel!
Thursday, February 28, 2008