A funny/scary story
I did not write this.
Kevin wrote this.
I do not know Kevin.
but he made me laugh
For the past eight summers, I’ve had the privilege of wasting my life away working as a carnie. Not a carnie in the strictest sense - I still have all of my teeth, no molest-stache, and sadly am not 'rocking' a mullet. Rather, I represent the bourgeoisie of the carnie world: an amusement park food service supervisor. This position puts me at the top of the proverbial carnie food chain… no pun intended. I get virtually unlimited power over 300 teenagers and the ability to hit on 16 - 18 year old girls with reckless abandon because they see me as "deep," "edgy," and "not as creepy as they first thought." This job did keep me steadily employed throughout high school and college; however, I was wholly unprepared for the sociological cesspool that this job would immerse me in.
The amusement park in the 20th century has become a pillar of American culture and a testament to its excess. Every summer, millions of parents cram their screaming, sugared-up, overweight and under-parented children into the family minivan and drive them to a place filled with loud noises, candy, fried foods and low adult supervision. They say that Disney is the most magical place on Earth. However, the 'magic' is not the experience of being at Disney, but rather, how a place like Disney contains that much societal and familial dysfunction and still maintains an absurdly low violent crime rate.
One of the reasons, I have continued to return to my summer job is largely because of my own morbid curiosity. Every year, though I already believe I’ve hit the bottom of the barrel of public embarrassment and defilement, something happens that redefines the complete and utter ineptitude and depravity that is the American family at an amusement park.
Forever a student of human behavior, I would like to share with all of you one of the most important things I’ve learned by interacting with the American public through the looking glass of the modern day amusement park:
Money goes in a wallet, purse, or pocket. Anything else is either weird, gross, or some combination of both.
For many of the past summers, I have had the 'honor' of being in charge of the food buildings near the water park. Many of you might associate 'water park' with 'descent view of hot boobies and asses.' From years of field research I can attest that this correlation is false in every sense of the word. Even when I could savor a MILF with a nice rack, the cumulative effect of, day in and day out, constantly viewing the human equivalent of lagoon creatures modeling bathing suits left me with such a negative erection that no amount of supple looking sweater meat could coax my wiener out from his hiding place. And when these lagoon creatures would hunger for something other than lost hikers, they would invariably walk/waddle over to me at the hot dog stand.
If the image of such beasts was libido killing at 150 feet, experiencing these bridge trolls at five feet was nightmare inducing. The first thing to hit me standing at the cash register was the unique fragrance of chlorine, suntan lotion, and sweat emanating from their nether-regions. This alone was enough to make me want to boot all over the counter. After the first wave of nausea subsided, I would have to complete the monetary transaction. This is where things could take a turn for the worse. I would tell them how much they owe and then watch as they pulled out their money.
For those who have never experienced a water park, usually people just rent a locker to store all of their stuff and they only take money with them. This being said, when a woman is wearing a bikini and she isn’t holding the money in her hand when I tell her how much she owes, there are only two places where the money can come from. The first one is slightly less disturbing than the second.
Most of the time, the woman has the money slid in her bikini top where it can soak up as much boob sweat as possible before she places it in my outstretched hand. To overcome my fear of acne-laden boob sweat when I’m faced with these transactions, I usually retreat into my happy place where this middle-aged wildebeest with the misshapen pair of post-pregnancy beasts magically transforms into a hot stripper, and the sweaty, crumbled dollars she’s unearthed transform into crisp George Washingtons that the stripper has just 'earned' at the local club. It’s really the only defense I have against such situations. Well, that and a lot of hand washing.
But if the boob bills weren’t bad enough, there is precious little on this Earth that can prepare you for when money is extracted from the second place. I’ll never forget the first time I experienced it. The woman was especially unpleasant to the eyes, due mostly to the way her circumference made an already skimpy bikini look even smaller. The only example that can properly describe her is a cylinder of ready-made biscuit dough wrapped in a couple of rubber bands. After I averted my eyes and told her how much she owed me, she did the unthinkable. She reached into the front of her bikini bottom and began rooting around like she was trying to find the prize in some demonic box of cereal.
And what a prize it was. She extracted from her genital region a folded and moist glob of green paper that made it look more like the Devil had dropped a turd in her meaty paw than a dollar bill. I was so taken aback by this that I didn’t even react for about 5 seconds. When I finally came back to lucid consciousness, I did the only thing I could think of. I looked her square in the eye and exclaimed: "Congratulations! You’re our one millionth customer! Your meal is on the house!"
Her face lit up with the prospect of free food and she was so excited that she rammed the money back into the dark, scary place from which it had emerged. Before she even reached the picnic tables she was cramming the hot dogs into her face like someone was going to steal them from her.
In hind sight, I realize I probably should have set a better example for my employees and not given away a tray full of food. But then again, I don’t think there were any other options. No amount of hand scrubbing could have eliminated the terrifying funk emanating from that wad of snatch money. If I had handled it, I would have needed to perform a self-amputation if I wanted to remove all of the foulness that would have spread from that money to my hands. Personally, I think I made the right decision.
Still proudly possessing all my digits,
Kevin
I am bored.. and too lazy to write something myself. i hope you all get some amusment out of this!
Lexi
Kevin wrote this.
I do not know Kevin.
but he made me laugh
For the past eight summers, I’ve had the privilege of wasting my life away working as a carnie. Not a carnie in the strictest sense - I still have all of my teeth, no molest-stache, and sadly am not 'rocking' a mullet. Rather, I represent the bourgeoisie of the carnie world: an amusement park food service supervisor. This position puts me at the top of the proverbial carnie food chain… no pun intended. I get virtually unlimited power over 300 teenagers and the ability to hit on 16 - 18 year old girls with reckless abandon because they see me as "deep," "edgy," and "not as creepy as they first thought." This job did keep me steadily employed throughout high school and college; however, I was wholly unprepared for the sociological cesspool that this job would immerse me in.
The amusement park in the 20th century has become a pillar of American culture and a testament to its excess. Every summer, millions of parents cram their screaming, sugared-up, overweight and under-parented children into the family minivan and drive them to a place filled with loud noises, candy, fried foods and low adult supervision. They say that Disney is the most magical place on Earth. However, the 'magic' is not the experience of being at Disney, but rather, how a place like Disney contains that much societal and familial dysfunction and still maintains an absurdly low violent crime rate.
One of the reasons, I have continued to return to my summer job is largely because of my own morbid curiosity. Every year, though I already believe I’ve hit the bottom of the barrel of public embarrassment and defilement, something happens that redefines the complete and utter ineptitude and depravity that is the American family at an amusement park.
Forever a student of human behavior, I would like to share with all of you one of the most important things I’ve learned by interacting with the American public through the looking glass of the modern day amusement park:
Money goes in a wallet, purse, or pocket. Anything else is either weird, gross, or some combination of both.
For many of the past summers, I have had the 'honor' of being in charge of the food buildings near the water park. Many of you might associate 'water park' with 'descent view of hot boobies and asses.' From years of field research I can attest that this correlation is false in every sense of the word. Even when I could savor a MILF with a nice rack, the cumulative effect of, day in and day out, constantly viewing the human equivalent of lagoon creatures modeling bathing suits left me with such a negative erection that no amount of supple looking sweater meat could coax my wiener out from his hiding place. And when these lagoon creatures would hunger for something other than lost hikers, they would invariably walk/waddle over to me at the hot dog stand.
If the image of such beasts was libido killing at 150 feet, experiencing these bridge trolls at five feet was nightmare inducing. The first thing to hit me standing at the cash register was the unique fragrance of chlorine, suntan lotion, and sweat emanating from their nether-regions. This alone was enough to make me want to boot all over the counter. After the first wave of nausea subsided, I would have to complete the monetary transaction. This is where things could take a turn for the worse. I would tell them how much they owe and then watch as they pulled out their money.
For those who have never experienced a water park, usually people just rent a locker to store all of their stuff and they only take money with them. This being said, when a woman is wearing a bikini and she isn’t holding the money in her hand when I tell her how much she owes, there are only two places where the money can come from. The first one is slightly less disturbing than the second.
Most of the time, the woman has the money slid in her bikini top where it can soak up as much boob sweat as possible before she places it in my outstretched hand. To overcome my fear of acne-laden boob sweat when I’m faced with these transactions, I usually retreat into my happy place where this middle-aged wildebeest with the misshapen pair of post-pregnancy beasts magically transforms into a hot stripper, and the sweaty, crumbled dollars she’s unearthed transform into crisp George Washingtons that the stripper has just 'earned' at the local club. It’s really the only defense I have against such situations. Well, that and a lot of hand washing.
But if the boob bills weren’t bad enough, there is precious little on this Earth that can prepare you for when money is extracted from the second place. I’ll never forget the first time I experienced it. The woman was especially unpleasant to the eyes, due mostly to the way her circumference made an already skimpy bikini look even smaller. The only example that can properly describe her is a cylinder of ready-made biscuit dough wrapped in a couple of rubber bands. After I averted my eyes and told her how much she owed me, she did the unthinkable. She reached into the front of her bikini bottom and began rooting around like she was trying to find the prize in some demonic box of cereal.
And what a prize it was. She extracted from her genital region a folded and moist glob of green paper that made it look more like the Devil had dropped a turd in her meaty paw than a dollar bill. I was so taken aback by this that I didn’t even react for about 5 seconds. When I finally came back to lucid consciousness, I did the only thing I could think of. I looked her square in the eye and exclaimed: "Congratulations! You’re our one millionth customer! Your meal is on the house!"
Her face lit up with the prospect of free food and she was so excited that she rammed the money back into the dark, scary place from which it had emerged. Before she even reached the picnic tables she was cramming the hot dogs into her face like someone was going to steal them from her.
In hind sight, I realize I probably should have set a better example for my employees and not given away a tray full of food. But then again, I don’t think there were any other options. No amount of hand scrubbing could have eliminated the terrifying funk emanating from that wad of snatch money. If I had handled it, I would have needed to perform a self-amputation if I wanted to remove all of the foulness that would have spread from that money to my hands. Personally, I think I made the right decision.
Still proudly possessing all my digits,
Kevin
I am bored.. and too lazy to write something myself. i hope you all get some amusment out of this!
Lexi