Vacation

Not that I had sufficient time to experience nature. Families decided to join me on my jaunt through the great outdoors, so instead of hearing birds chirping, I heard mothers calmly and politely asking, "Katie, please stop kicking Mommy. Please stop kicking Mommy, Katie. Katie, Katie, Katie. Katie, are you listening to Mommy? Mommy asked you nicely to stop kicking her. P-l-e-a-s-e, Katie, stop kicking Mommy. Don't you know it hurts Mommy, Katie? Mommy doesn't like to be kicked, Katie. Katie, please stop kicking Mommy."

If it takes a village to raise a child, why the fuck can't I smack Katie upside the head?

While Katie didn't follow me to the hotel I was staying at, Rain Girl did.

Rain Girl was autistic. She did the bizarre finger contortions and let out the occasional primal scream. Her parents wore an "I love her, but when are we going to follow Holland's lead and legalize euthanasia?" expression on their faces.

The primal scream woke me more than once, but Rain Girl's father's actions one balmy afternoon were worth the price of the room.

Father and Rain Girl sauntered to the lake -- his arms carrying a cooler, her arms encased in floaties. Rain Girl ran screeching into the water, and splashed about like, well, the socially-inept retard she was. It was heart-warming, and I considered asking her to do my taxes next year.

A boardwalk of sorts paralleled this section of the lake, and the father was slowly walking along it, following Rain Girl's movements. Something startled Rain Girl, and she flailed about and attempted to lift herself out of the water by grabbing on to the boardwalk.

Her father put his foot against her forehead, and pushed her back in. This went on for five minutes. Rain Girl tried to get out; Dad kicked her back in.

It went on from there. Wherever I went, there was a child screaming to get noticed.

On Sunday, we decided to take a brunch cruise on a lake. The cost wasn't prohibitive enough to spare me the horror of mini-banshees, but I didn't anticipate a passel of unruly children throwning themselves on the omelet station, demanding attention.

I got on the ship and thought, "Fuck, yeah! No kids!" That feeling of euphoria lasted over an hour. Then we headed back toward land.

That's when the dance contest started. Now, I like free things, but only if there are no strings attached. Even with 10 Coronas (the only decent beer available up there) coursing through my system and the promise of a breast lift when gravity takes effect in middle age, I still wouldn't debase myself for 10% off the gift shop's mug.

That's the normal adult reaction, and that's why adults have kids: to do stupid shit to earn freebies.

From the balding musician's keyboard came the beginning strains of "Macarena." Children, at their parent's behest, poured on to the makeshift dance floor (where they were hiding before, I have no idea), and the eyes of the surrounding adults glazed over, with the female caretakers turning into voodoo-tranced mombies. None of the drugs I've taken caused me to turn into a drooling, numbed buffoon, proving that illicit drugs should be free and children illegal.

The children were poorly imitating the Macarena motions, and their yuppie handlers joined the fray to show them how it was done. A gift certificate for free espresso at a cheap Italian restaurant is worth humiliating one's children, and possibly scarring them for life by having a conniption in front of an audience.

Five minutes of gussied-up nymphets and coddled mama's boy dancing was more than I could stomach. I bought another beer and ventured on to the outer deck.

The breeze was refreshing, the view was beautiful, and best of all, I didn't spot any tow-headed demons. I decided to try my luck and visit the other side of the boat for a different view. I found one.

A top-heavy Spanish-speaking woman, oblivious to the public breast-feeding debate raging in her newfound land, plopped herself on a deck chair, proudly lifted her shirt, and latched her bundle of joy on her massive tit.

Don't get me wrong. I like breasts. I have a set of them myself. They're fine decorations, and I occasionally find myself staring at a nice rack. This woman had lovely breasts, and I would have preferred an unobstructed view. That's my main argument against public breast-feeding: I can't see a damn thing. It's such a tease.

By then, we were close to land, so I sat down and enjoyed the view. Of the lake. The beaner still hadn't given me a thrill.

Because the boat departs from a tourist town, and I didn't anticipate being back that way, I walked around the town. Many of the stores catered to the neo-hippie crowd, and as Woodstock was that weekend, there was an abundance of kids looking for head shops to commemorate the event, even though they were hundreds of miles away from the raping and pillaging.

My patience was shot to hell after the cruise, so listening to Bong Water and Patchouli Oil argue over purchasing a bong with flowers or stars was only funny for 30 seconds. Without the copious amonts of beer I guzzled on the cruise, maybe 10 seconds.

The next day, I headed to an amusement park. Oh, hush, I know I was asking for it, but the lure of stomach-churning, headache-inducing roller coasters on someone else's dime was too tempting.

I got there before the park opened, but a contingent of early bird Quebecoise and rowdy New York City families were ahead of me. As soon as the gates were unlatched, I darted for the new ride: an indoor roller coaster. There were only 40 people ahead of me, which I assumed would translate into a brief wait.

I'm not going to repeat what they say about assumptions. All I'll say is the people on line were dangerously close to going Lord of the Flies.

After waiting an hour and ten minutes for the lamest roller coaster I've been on, I got in line for Raging Rapids. I needed to cool off. The temperature was hovering around 95 degrees, and the humidity was uncomfortable.

While in line, I watched a woman slowly walk by. Not just any woman. She was Elsie the Breeder Sow. The woman had a mewling infant with her who couldn't have been more than 10 minutes old. I think she popped it out on the wooden coaster. Great weather for a baby. Nothing says lovin' like taking a newborn out for a day in an oven.

What caught my eye, though, were her legs. If you're familiar with Popeye the Sailorman, imagine the same deformity on a slightly overweight woman's calves. I don't know if sprogging or genetics caused it, but if I ever felt a maternal twinge, that sight killed it.

And I couldn't help but be juvenile. (Did I mention that after the lame roller coaster and before the Raging Rapids, I stopped in the pseudo Beer Garden? Rancid burgers and pisswater beer will cause even the most misanthropic of bitches to create immature jingles.)

Noticing that she bore a striking resemblance to the spinach-eating sailor, I quickly composed a tune set to Popeye's theme song:

She's Elsie the Breeder Sow,
She's Elsie the Breeder Sow,
She's strong like the oxen,
cuz her breast milk has toxin,
She's Elsie the Breeder Sow.
She's one tough gazookas,
cuz her breasts are bazookas,
that squirt really far,
She squirts 'em and splurts 'em,
and always perverts them,
and then heads to the snack bar.

That was as far as I got.

After all of that excitement, I visited one of the amusement park's theme areas. This area was fashioned after a stereotypical Wild West town. I walked into the saloon for a drink. A father with a baby strapped to his chest tried to look suave as he leaned against the wall and gave me the look of a bachelor. His thought process was obvious: "Chicks dig babies. That's a chick, and I have a baby. She must want me. Look how fatherly I am. I bet her uterus is contracting just staring at me. I am a chick magnet."

I was sorely tempted to tell him that I'm not turned on by men whose balls have shriveled up to the size of their wives' sex drives. But his hausfrau wife waddled over before I had my chance.

She admonished the father for placing her child in danger by allowing the child to stay in a saloon. That's where people drink alcohol, you know.

Once the novelty of the rides wore off, I began walking toward the amusement park's exit. Along the way, I passed a very pregnant woman (the hideous dark line from navel to groin and turkey timer bellybutton in all their glory) with her very fat 8-year-old twins. I didn't rule out the twins being pregnant themselves. Who knows these days? The father looked smugly satisfied, so it was a possibility.

(To be continued when I have nothing else to write about ...)

Providing jack-off material for white misogynists since 1997.

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