Into the tomb of Disney

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We recently returned from our sojourn to the so-called “Magic Kingdom,” demesne of the creature that calls itself “Walt Disney.”  To spare those of weak constitution, I will keep brief the tale of the dark events that befell our adventuring company there.

Upon entering the Magic Kingdom, I immediately discerned a disturbing lack of Pepsi products, such that no Diet Mountain Dew was to be found anywhere within the realm.  This roused my suspicions, since all know that Diet Mountain Dew is an elixir favored by the gods.  Its complete absence was a dire omen.  It seemed the god of Disney, an enormous, abhorrent black rodent with a voice that could shatter glass, preferred libations to it to come in the form of the unholy witches’ brew known as “Coca Cola.”  Those who worshipped at his altar wore ceremonial caps on their heads that simulated rodent ears.

Given this situation, I took care to travel well-armed and this proved wise.  I soon learned that the so-called “characters” who prowl the Disney grounds, characters who purport to be human beings in the costume of smiling, cheerful dogs, rodents, and waterfowl of various stripes, are, in fact, not human at all.  Oh, there are human bodies within the costumes, but they are soulless automatons animated by the power of the dark master who rules the place.

Once I learned of this, I resolved to take action.  Stealing into one of the “parks” after close, I happened upon “Chip and Dale” engaged in a vile ritual that involved chanting in high-pitched voices while drinking Coca-Cola.  Presumably they were calling out to some demonic entity favored by chipmunks and offering it the foul drink as payment for its services.

I clubbed both of them to death with one of the freakishly large turkey legs sold at the realm’s concession stands.  Thereafter I dismembered their bodies and fed them to the big cats of the Animal Kingdom, all while humming “It’s a small world after all.”

But this one holy deed in an unholy land could do little to stop the creeping darkness.  The characters were endless.  I and my comrades decided to strike at the source.

After diligent investigation, we learned that the dark lord of Disney resided in an elaborate tomb disguised as a thrill ride known as “Space Mountain.”

Unfortunately, our investigation did not go unnoticed, and we saw growing suspicions in the dead, soulless eyes of the Mickeys, Minnies, and Donalds who seemed to follow us everywhere.  We knew we had little time.

When the time was right, we once again entered the park after close.  For a time, we avoided the army of characters that prowled the darkness, but soon we were discovered.  We sped toward Space Mountain, trailed by an ever growing number of howling characters hungry for blood and souls.  I shall never forget the blood curdling call of the Mickeys.

“Have a zippity do dah day, sir!  Have a zippity do dah day!”

Awful, I know.

When we reached Space Mountain, we put our plan into motion.  Jen held the army of zombie-characters at bay by singing a steady stream of Hanna-Barbara cartoon theme songs.  While she channeled the power of the gods by singing “Scooby Dooby Do, where are you?” the boys and I entered the mountain.

I will not here relate all that befell us there for fear of troubling your sleep.  I will say only that before reaching the dark lord of Disney, we first had to pass many of his servant creatures, including two fey bound to his service, a creature called “Pan,” and one called “Tinkerbell.”  The boys slew them both by driving cold wrought iron shivs into their hearts.  I could not have been more proud.

At last we came upon the lair of the dark lord himself, the necromancer Waldiz, an exile from another plane, a plane of madness and dark evil, who sought to exert control over this world through the ever expanding reach of his consumer empire.

Dark power swirled around him, but before he could fully gather his energies, I stunned him by brandishing a photo of Michael Eisner.

“Look upon him!” I said.

He recoiled, and I followed up with news clippings about the Disney-Pixar merger.  I weakened him further by forcing him to face the truth of his existence.

“Your empire is the worst kind of corporate whore.  You’ve turned consumerism into religion.”

“So what!” he answered.  “I may rule the harlot of corporate America, but only because the people of America, of the world entire, give me that power.  Soon all will wear the Mickey ears!  All!”

“Not if I have any say in it,” I said, and brandished the holy of holies — a sparkling bottle of Diet Dew.  It was no accident that Waldiz banished Pepsi products from his realm.

“No!” he said, seeing his doom in the glistening green vial.  “No!”

“Do the Dew, Walt,” I said, and splashed him with the holy liquid.  “Oh, and this contains phenylalanine, mother fu***er!”

He shrieked in agony, his twisted form evaporating into foul smelling vapor.

“Hypocrite!” he shouted as he passed from this world. “You are here yourself, spending money on petty amusements and mediocre food!  You gave me the power!  You!”

I could not deny it.  “True.  But what do you expect?  I’ve got five year olds.”

I slammed the rest of the Dew, donned a Mickey ear cap, stuffed a five dollar hot pretzel into my mouth, and headed for Thunder Mountain.  There were no lines at that time of night.

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One Comment

  1. Jonathon Phillips

    And no comments on this?! Really? This, sir, was a most excellent tale that kept me smiling. Well done.

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