Six Flags Blows

(originally published 2007-08-24)

So the summer is winding down and I need to pad my lead as Father of the Year. Yesterday, Six Flags for the family is the call.

Impulsively going on a Thursday was great idea. The place was as empty as I've ever seen it. And, if you know me: the less people involved - especially the smelly messy rabble of the deep south that makes to Six Flags - the better for my psyche.

Strike one. Being the Jetsons of Plano, we buy our tickets over the Internet. This nets us the same price as bringing in some sticky Coke cans that I'm certain will feed the silverfish population already thriving in my truck. To boot, we don't have to wait in the first line to buy tickets. Of course, Jane who pays for and prints out the tickets assumes the chain of custody has been completed when I breathe slightly on the tickets in the printer output bin. So when we stop the engine, parked in our our gold-embossed Six Flags $15 parking spot, we collectively realize that the tickets are still at home. This adds about two hours of driving, $8 in tolls and sperm whale's belly of gas. My kids get to see George swear and steam for about an hour during all the extra driving; I'm sure I surrended some FOTY points for that.

Strike two. The second ride we go on is a generic pukatronic that spins my tattered innards around until bile has been released throughout my body for the rest of the day.

Aside: on the way in we are welcomed with a Pink Thing price increase from $1 to $2. This alone, if you know my bitter vengeful nature, is enough to make me despise Six Flags forever.

The heat index is about 110F, so my drunken sailor flashbacks are in full force. Even the punk rides activate all my body's misery centers. My own body odor is irritating me, perhaps a first for me. I was looking at my cell phone clock, counting down when the park would close after only 45 minutes in the park. One ride, the dreaded Vibora, actually undoes three months of chiropractic healing in 45 seconds.

Strike three. Even though I successfully convince my kids to understand there's only one more ride to be had before the park closes without so much as a struggle - there's one more horror ahead of me. Spongebob Jenky Ride Pants, decides to torture me while offering the worst 3D theater experience possible. My wallet silently squirts out of my pants and onto slimey and frightening floor with which I'd been fearful of making direct eye contact.

Insult to Injury
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