Sunday, February 27, 2005
afternoon in hell
As you, my dear reader, may not be a parent, you may not be aware that corporate America has designed its own insidious version of Hell to torment the parents of young children.
If, my dear reader, you are a parent of a young child or have been one in the past, you know doubt are already familiar with the tale of misery and woe I am about to share.
I empathize with you, and like Clinton, you no doubt feel my pain.
This afternoon The Boy had the honor to be one of three children other than cousins to be invited to a party by the niece of The Nurse (and virtual aunt). She just turned six. It was a birthday party.
The party was held at. . .
[INSERT DRAMATIC AND OMINOUS SOUNDING SOAP OPERA STYLE ORCHESTRAL FILL HERE]
Chuck E. Cheese's
Where a kid can be a kid!
And adults can spend a few hours secretly wishing they never had one.
Or at the very least, adults can spend a few hours wishing that Mr. Cheese had the decency to sell beer, like the good people of Peter Piper Pizza.
When you walk in, you are greeted by a Chuck E. Cheese security agent, a high school kid armed with an ultraviolet number stamp blocking your entrance with movie theater or bank lobby style vinyl covered rope barrier.
After stamping your family with the same invisible number to prevent child snatching, the security agent moves the rope aside and the Gates of Hell are opened wide.
(The same person also guards the exit and makes sure that everyone leaving together has the same number. I'd love to find out more about the lawsuit that lead to the implementation of that procedure.)
Within seconds of entering my head began to pound with an ache that could most easily be cured by a strong alcoholic beverage. Now that I am home following the ordeal, I am pleased to report that I have found the cure. (Thank you Martinis 101.)
It's not the kids. I love kids. I spend my days with them and have devoted my life to them.
Okay maybe it is the kids. There's just so damn many of them. Running and screaming and basically acting like little Hellions.
It's just sensory overload. The flashing lights and sounds from the games, all the freaking people.
And then! Oh, the noise! Oh, the noise! Noise! Noise! Noise!
That's one thing I hate! The NOISE! NOISE! NOISE! NOISE!
And I don't know exactly what it is, but those animatronic creatures that sing bastardized cover versions of oldies hits. . .
They somehow remind me of when acid goes bad.
Our nearest Chuck E. Cheese's is not located in the most affluent part of town. The Wife fondly refers to it as "The Ghetto Chuck E. Cheese's".
And that just adds to the experience.
There's nothing quite like the thrill of eating warm cardboard covered with melted grease while surrounded by the screaming children of hootchied out current and former teenage mothers in cut up t-shirts and low rise jeans two sizes too small along wit' their gangsta wannabe overblinged boyfriends and baby daddies.
Good times.
|
If, my dear reader, you are a parent of a young child or have been one in the past, you know doubt are already familiar with the tale of misery and woe I am about to share.
I empathize with you, and like Clinton, you no doubt feel my pain.
This afternoon The Boy had the honor to be one of three children other than cousins to be invited to a party by the niece of The Nurse (and virtual aunt). She just turned six. It was a birthday party.
The party was held at. . .
[INSERT DRAMATIC AND OMINOUS SOUNDING SOAP OPERA STYLE ORCHESTRAL FILL HERE]
Chuck E. Cheese's
Where a kid can be a kid!
And adults can spend a few hours secretly wishing they never had one.
Or at the very least, adults can spend a few hours wishing that Mr. Cheese had the decency to sell beer, like the good people of Peter Piper Pizza.
When you walk in, you are greeted by a Chuck E. Cheese security agent, a high school kid armed with an ultraviolet number stamp blocking your entrance with movie theater or bank lobby style vinyl covered rope barrier.
After stamping your family with the same invisible number to prevent child snatching, the security agent moves the rope aside and the Gates of Hell are opened wide.
(The same person also guards the exit and makes sure that everyone leaving together has the same number. I'd love to find out more about the lawsuit that lead to the implementation of that procedure.)
Within seconds of entering my head began to pound with an ache that could most easily be cured by a strong alcoholic beverage. Now that I am home following the ordeal, I am pleased to report that I have found the cure. (Thank you Martinis 101.)
It's not the kids. I love kids. I spend my days with them and have devoted my life to them.
Okay maybe it is the kids. There's just so damn many of them. Running and screaming and basically acting like little Hellions.
It's just sensory overload. The flashing lights and sounds from the games, all the freaking people.
And then! Oh, the noise! Oh, the noise! Noise! Noise! Noise!
That's one thing I hate! The NOISE! NOISE! NOISE! NOISE!
And I don't know exactly what it is, but those animatronic creatures that sing bastardized cover versions of oldies hits. . .
They somehow remind me of when acid goes bad.
Our nearest Chuck E. Cheese's is not located in the most affluent part of town. The Wife fondly refers to it as "The Ghetto Chuck E. Cheese's".
And that just adds to the experience.
There's nothing quite like the thrill of eating warm cardboard covered with melted grease while surrounded by the screaming children of hootchied out current and former teenage mothers in cut up t-shirts and low rise jeans two sizes too small along wit' their gangsta wannabe overblinged boyfriends and baby daddies.
Good times.
|
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