SPLASH MOUNTAIN

I Had a Meltdown in the Pluto Parking Lot at Disneyland

It wasn’t my finest hour

“Motherfreakin crap buckets, frick yellow bugs, sugar shack asshats,” I yelled.

Only that’s not what I said.

Instead of this G-rated version, I used every obscene, nasty, and objectionable swear word in my vocabulary and made up some new ones.

It was as if all the pirates from The Pirates of the Caribbean had come to life, freed themselves from endlessly chasing wenches and drinking large tankards of air, and were creating havoc in their newly animated bodies.

Suddenly, it was swear like a pirate night in the Disneyland parking lot.

It was Gay Night at Disneyland, or that’s what called it.

Every year APLA (AIDS Project Los Angeles) would have a fundraiser at Disneyland.

The park was closed to anyone who hadn’t purchased their ticket through APLA because, on Gay Night, Disneyland was gloriously uncrowded.

There were hardly any lines, and you could ride your favorite ride like the Haunted Mansion ten times in a row if you wanted.

I went with some of my gay friends and had a blast.

You really haven’t had the full Disneyland experience until you’ve gone on Peter Pan with a bunch of witty and sarcastic gay men.

I had worn my favorite sweater which had a deep V in the back — which I thought was strange. I always wore it backward, so I had a low-cut front instead of a weird V for Victory on my back.

Celine Dion can carry that look off, but I can’t.

While the sweater’s construction may have been funky, it was a gorgeous Cerulean blue angora that was long enough to hug my hips and stop at the knees. I could dress it up with earrings or go casual paired with jeans.

I loved that sweater so much.

After a super fun night of eating fried foods, sneaking drinks from the multiple flasks my friends had secretly brought in, seeing every attraction, and riding all the rides, we stumbled out to the Pluto section of the parking lot.

Not everybody was wasted, our driver was sober, which was good because maneuvering the Disneyland parking lot required one to be sharp, even if they were walking.

It was dark, even with a full moon, and the parking lot lights, or maybe I was too drunk and exhausted to notice the oil slick before it was too late.

Suddenly, the asphalt became a slip and slide as I lost my footing, and slid so that my back and side were covered in grease.

I was embarrassed.

I was humiliated.

I was furious that my sweater was ruined because somebody’s car had an oil leak and they hadn’t fixed it before coming to the Magical Kingdom.

Swearing commences, in three, two, one.

If you’re thinking that since it was 1:00 a.m. and a fundraiser for an LGBTQ+ organization that maybe there weren’t any children to witness my meltdown.

Let me assure you, there were.

Hands immediately covered ears, and parents turned their children away from the grown-up lady in the blue sweater having a tantrum. The only thing that could have made it worse was if I’d been in a Cinderella costume.

I’ve slipped and fallen on my ass everywhere from the cobblestone streets of Paris to the dirty sidewalks of Hollywood, but this fall was the worst. Not only was my beautiful sweater ruined, but both my ego and my butt were bruised. And there were so many witnesses to my disgraceful tumble.

My cursing turned into crying as I lay there wishing the earth would open up and swallow me whole.

“Save yourselves, ” I told my friends. “Go on without me.”

My friends already laughing hysterically, picked me up, and tried to wipe some of the grease off — not to save my sweater, but my friend’s car. After placing some towels on the seat, loaded me into the car, and we left the scene of my major adult tantrum.

Disneyland was no longer the happiest place on earth.

I had the sweater dry-cleaned but it was never the same. Still, I kept it until many generations of moths had made it their meal of the day.

It was so comfy and perfect.

Motherf*ckers.

Thank you for reading!!