I had a great weekend, filled with relaxation, BBQ and the Simpsons movie. But what I am here to talk about right now is something my sibling did this weekend.

Trish and Kane went to Comic-Con this past weekend. She told me there were 120,000 people there, and I don't think she was exaggerating that number just to impress me, kids. It sounded like a crazy time. While I would have gotten very stressed out and bitchy with crowds like that, I still would have enjoyed going there just so I too could have listened to the Mike Nelson/ Film Crew panel discussion; seen Joss Whedon with my own eyes; pick up free comic books and other freebies; and go to a picnic in the park with the fabulous Tim and Eric, of Tim and Eric Awesome Show Great Job! and Tom Goes to the Mayor.

I've been meaning to share this for awhile now, since Tim and Eric Awesome Show is pretty damn funny. It's not everyone's cup of tea, to be sure. And despite what some naysayers think, you do NOT need to be high (or drunk) to enjoy this show, IF it happens to capture your own sense of humor as perfectly as it does for me and my sister. If it does that for you, then it's really enjoyable. I just can't believe someone has come along and captured absurdity, randomness and "weird face" humor so well, AT LAST! Up until now, I was just doing stuff like this with my sister and Kristen for years and years-- now I know we are not alone, for other people watch this show when it is shown on Adult Swim. It's pretty cool. To me, anyway.

Here is one of the very first segments of this show I ever saw. I fell in love with the show right away!
"Think about your Dad! What's your Dad like? I wanna meet that Dad!"

On Saturday, Trish and Kane went to the Tim and Eric picnic behind the convention center. It sounded fun... there were three-legged races, water balloon tosses and trivia contests. They served bologna sandwiches. My lucky sister managed to snap several pictures of her and Kane with T&E. This morning, she sent me some because she is having major blog problems these days and can't post to her own blog. Plus, she knew I'd think these were neat pictures. Anyway, here's one of them with Tim and Eric:

They all look so happy. I wonder, though...did she actually eat one of those bologna sandwiches? I guess I could ask her. But not knowing is kind of great, too. Ha ha! My sister could be full of bologna sammich in this picture! Trish, you stupid, stupid potential bologna eater. This is how people turn into tapeworm farms. (Just kidding Trish...I love you even IF you ate a bologna sandwich. You can't tapeworm away a family!)

I'll leave you with John C. Reilly's segment on the show as Dr. Steve Brule. Thrill as he speaks about digestion problems:
"Ripdadalipdipdipdip, it's your birthday!"

Dear Dumb Old Man,

I hear you honking your horn behind me. I’m not just trying to ignore you, I promise. I also see you in my rearview mirror, gesturing wildly and speaking with a big, flappy mouth to the passenger riding shotgun next to you in your AstroVan. You have been taken note of, sir.

However, I refuse to move my car an inch.

Keep honking. I have all day-- in fact, I have many decades ahead of me-- and I can turn my radio up nice and loud.

Now I see you are taking things up a notch, and inching closer to my bumper. The grill of your car is now below my rear-view window, so it looks like you are hovering right there behind me like an angry specter gripping a steering wheel like it's a cat you are trying to strangle. You are no specter, though... you are simply a bitter-looking old codger with an apparent anger problem. I want to turn around and hold up a big “Relax!” sign, because I am concerned you are about to suffer a stroke.

In just a couple more seconds, we can all move. Patience, my friend...patience.

As I finally take my foot off the brake and drift into my right turn, I casually raise my hand and point (probably just for my own benefit, since you will likely see my finger and wrongly assume it’s THE finger I am pointing out) at the very large and very necessary sign on the right.

“NO TURN ON RED.”

Good day, sir. Please go take some old man pills, or whatever it is you are addicted to, and sleep the rest of the afternoon away. Just do us all a favor and get off the road before you do it.

--Cruel Shoes

In my many travels, I have learned a lot. One of those many things is that there's a proper time and place for parrots.

And I submit that the following is an unnecessary utilization of a parrot to promote safety for children in the 1980s:

When this started showing during afternoon cartoons on NJ television in 1985, Kristen and I were immediately hooked. The song was awesome. We sang it any chance we got...with the squawk at the very end and everything! We deeply respected Officer Bird and his public safety work. More than that, we found the comic gold stashed away in this PSA and we savored it like a fine wine. Or, a fine Chocolate Cow. Whatever.

My point is, today this is STILL hilarious to me. Why? I can't quite put it into words. It just IS. Kristen found this video today and all over again I was back in fifth grade, getting yelled at for singing the Officer Bird song and laughing when I was supposed to be working on my long division. (I blame Officer Bird for my shoddy math abilities... the part of my brain that was supposed to keep the math was instead clogged up with Officer Bird-isms. This says sooo much about me today.)

OK, so...why did they do this? Picture the guys making the little "set" with the houses and streets. Someone wrote the copy the voiceover 'cop' says; and someone fashioned that little police car for Officer Bird and forced him onto makeshift rollerskates for some god-awful, unknown reason. But before all of this, someone, somewhere had the idea: "What if I were to teach children about stranger danger through a parrot?"

There was a development meeting, no doubt. A bunch of interns and a few middle-management guys down at the television station, sitting around in an stuffy paneled room behind the production room. And it probably had one coffee-addled bastard who took the wheel and decided he knew EXACTLY what the Officer Bird PSA needed, like this: "And this parrot moves through his little town on 'patrol', and we show random shots of him about halfway through just to take up some time before we get to the big special effect bit in the next scene, where Officer Bird disappears? Can we get roller skates? What about that, guys? Kids love birds on roller skates! What's that, Phil? Does the parrot do the talking? Um...noooo. That would be predictable to have the parrot actually say something. No Phil, we can't use just any old bird, if we aren't having the thing talking. Stop waffling me. The parrot is colorful. Kids are drawn to color. And besides, do YOU want to be responsible for miking up a parrot? Where are you gonna put the clip, huh? You want to be the dick who staples a microphone to a live parrot, you son of a bitch? COME ON, it's GO time!" And that's when the meeting would move outside to the parking lot.

Two weeks later? Officer Bird makes its television debut!

The entertainment world is so glamorous. All this magic that goes into the making of television really fascinates me.

And really...why doesn't Officer Bird deliver at least one phrase or line of dialogue?

This will keep me up tonight.

RAUL JULIA: A Biography

Raúl Rafael Carlos Juliá y Arcelay was born at the Floral Park subsection of San Juan on March 9, 1940, on a greasy kitchen table in his parents' restaurant. He was the oldest of four brothers and sisters; his brother Carlos Rafael died in an automobile accident in 1960. His mother was a mezzo-soprano who abandoned a potential career as a singer when she married Juliá's father. Some relatives on his father's side were part-time musicians and full-time loser trash collectors.

When he was born, little Raul was cursed with intestinal worms. Apparently his mother had eaten some very, very bad clams the night she performed her last musical show at a little local cantina known as "Queso Queso": she had bumbled through the lyrics of "Shimmy Shimmy KoKo Pop" and had been hustled off the stage by a fat sweaty saxophonist, and the crowd berated her mercilessly as she tried to gather what was left of her dignity, and wipe fat saxophonist sweat off of her pretty lace shirt. "Why don't you just go and marry some guy who will one day father some kids for you already!" they yelled as they threw garbage at her. It was a sad scene, and witnesses say she left Queso Queso for the last time and went straight into a depression-fueled eating binge that lasted for 4 months. During this dark period, she married and got pregnant with the zygote that would end up being Raul Julia...but she also had taken to eating out of the dumpster down behind the seafood restautant. And that was how she contracted worms, and how baby Raul was infected. His parents lured the worms out of his body by dangling a fresh ham into the back of his diaper 10 times a day. Incidentally, his childhood nickname was "Baby Ham Butt."

Raúl's father was the founder of "La Cueva del Chicken Inn", a restaurant in San Juan which he used as a gate to introduce pizza and fried chicken into the Puerto Rican gastronomy, during the mid-1950s. He also used a long tube he called "The Chick'N Chute" that, when coated with mild pico de gallo, was a favorite among those patrons who still wanted to ingest the food but were unable to chew for whatever reason. Infamous Finnish gangster Hals Oooder, who was hiding from the Finland mob at the time, was a frequent user of the Chick'N Chute. Oooder had no teeth to speak of, and was taunted by the local children for his lack of a hinged jaw.

At any rate, the restaurant was a certified success! Raul's illustrious father hired an Italian cook in New York City who could prepare authentic Italian pizza for Puerto Rican palates. Raúl's sister María Eugenia claims that their father was, in a way, the first fast food mogul Puerto Rico ever had, since the relatively simple food fare would ensure prompt service at the restaurant. Historians note, however, that Maria Eugenia is a notorious liar with a penchant for shoplifting dry cat food in purses she fashioned from her own undergarments. One thing is sure: He founded the restaurant at the very house where Raúl and his brother Rafael were born, they rolled out pizza dough on the very table Raul and his siblings were born on, the brothers and sisters literally grew up at the family business, and the property is still owned by the Juliá family.

A CAREER TAKES OFF!

Juliá discovered acting early in his academic career, beginning with a role as a talking can of beans in first grade. "From then on, that was it," he told Cigar Aficionado magazine in 1993. "I knew there was something special about the theater for me... something beyond the regular reality, something that I could get into and transcend and become something other than myself; I found intense pleasure in becoming that can of beans. That may be why I was suspended, in fact." He was deeply involved in drama and art clubs in his high school years, was beaten mercilessly by his classmates, and even played the role of Rodrigo in Othello at a local drama production. For a while he was also a game show host and teen program host on Puerto Rican television. This brought him the admiration of the teen girls in his school, and at least 67 wedgies and 18 incidents where he was admitted to the ER suffering from "kicked scrotes."

Upon graduation from college, Juliá was faced with a difficult choice between his parents' wishes that he become a guano gatherer and his own dreams of prancing around in costumes. They wanted him to remain in Puerto Rico and continue on to law school so he could become a lawyer that would defend the guano industry. They also pointed out that his uncles were the owners of a mental hospital, and that he could have guaranteed success as a doctor. GOD, they really had sooo many plans for Raul. Raul, become this. Raul, be that. It was stiffling for a young thespian!! He wanted to pursue an acting career. Finally, like so many aspiring actors, he left for New York City in 1964, asking his parents to only finance the tuition fees of any acting classes he might take, while supporting himself through various odd jobs, including selling fountain pens, tap dancing for dollars down at the pier, and serving as a telemarketer. Juliá soon began studying drama with Wynn Handman. He soon found work in off-Broadway theater and at open air performances in New York's Central Park-- well, it wasn't so much 'work' as it was 'screaming out at the passing tourists while wearing a weird, character-y hat of some kind, usually fashioned from paper mache'.

In 1966, Juliá began working with theater impresario Joseph Papp (not to be confused with the Pap family, renowned for their smears) and the New York Shakespeare Festival. His Shakespearean roles included Edmund in King Lear in 1973 and the title role of Othello in 1979, and some other stuff that has been known to go on and on and on and bore people to tears, actual tears. Juliá went on to enjoy great success on the musical stage, receiving four Tony Award nominations. He appeared in over a dozen Broadway productions, including the legendary 1973 flop musical Via Galactica. Remember that one? No one does. If you say that phrase around certain prostitutes today, you WILL get your ass kicked.

The stage successes led to his formal film debut in The Organization (1971), in which he starred opposite Sidney Poitier (he had played bit parts in two previous films, Stiletto and The Panic in Needle Park). In the early 1980s, Juliá was invited to join Francis Ford Coppola's Zoetrope Studios company and appeared in One from the Heart (1982) on one condition-- he perform the role while drunk. Francis Ford, being the prankster he is, loved it and had a blast getting hammered with Raul when they were done filming for the day. Rumor has it they stole some car stereos at the time.

In 1971, Juliá also appeared as a regular cast member, Rafael, on the children's TV series Sesame Street. Rafael only appeared on the show during the third season, which was universally panned by educators as being the worst season of the show due to the blatant racism, profanity and violence. Disappointed with the direction the Henson Company was heading in, he packed up his things in a red handkerchief tied to a stick, and then Juliá moved on to other projects.

Although he never became a major film superstar (he was partial towards theater), Juliá had notable dramatic and comic roles in a number of films and made-for-TV movies. In 1983, he starred in a spectacularly disastrous made-for-TV movie Overdrawn at the Memory Bank, an adaptation of a John Varley short story which would later be mocked on Mystery Science Theater 3000. One of his most memorable roles came as the defense attourney of Harrison Ford in "Presumed Innocent".

Later he went on to play his most acclaimed and beloved role, that of Gomez Addams. Although he was universally adored at last, he was uncomfortable with the attention. "Gomez is a lover, a suave and debonaire gentleman. I can respect that. And he is good with the kids. He seems to enjoy a healthy relationship with his bitchin' wife, Morticia, but there is a sadness to Gomez that I had a hard time leaving behind," said Raul. "I remember improvising an intense scene in which Gomez is trying to enjoy a much-deserved bag of circus peanuts, but Thing keeps interfering and trying to steal the circus peanuts. I went with it, and Gomez let out a primal howl of frustration and threw those circus peanuts to the ground, lashing out in the only way he knew how. I had decided that Gomez is a urinator early on, and I think they would have included that scene had the actor in the Thing costume not had a deadly allergic reaction to my urine. Oh well, at least the movies paid me well and I got to keep my 'stache."

Overall, Raul Julia never managed to piss a lot of people off, pardon the pun. He was well-liked in Hollywood and had a smattering of fans. Sadly, in 1994 he passed away from stomach cancer, and as it turns out, there was nothing funny about that. Stomach cancer sucks. And to this day, his family seeks to avenge his death by hunting stomach cancer down... when they find it, they will challenge it to a duel. This is true.

In honor of Mr. Julia, I present here my favorite clip. Here, he portrays some random man in "Overdrawn at the Memory Bank," and the Mystery Science Theater 3000 guys have some fun making fun of it, rightly so:

"Mom... my nuts?"

Thanks for the memories, Raul Julia.
The End.

Squirrel Attack!*
I think squirrels are cute. So are raccoons, and even skunks have adorable little faces and nice, fluffy tails (just ignore the stink). Yet these little creatures have terrified me in my sleep over the years.

I'm someone who dreams a lot, and I dream very vivid, lucid dreams. But I am prone to the occassional ridiculous nightmare. My main reoccuring dream is that I am locked out of a building with a small animal coming after me. Usually it is a squirrel, but raccoons, skunks and possums have all made appearances in my nightmares.

I don't get it! How come when I see these creatures in real life I am not scared of them at all (well, except for the possum and the skunk), yet in the dreamworld they are out to get me? What could it be about little furry creatures that goes right to the heart of darkness within my soul? Is it the whiskers? Or the tiny scampering feet? The fact that they can climb trees and jump on a person if they so desired? Or maybe it's just the mites that probably live in their fur. Yeah. I bet it's the mites.

I started dreaming this way when I was still in elementary school. I had this same dream many times as a kid: I am walking home from the bus stop after school; I notice a small animal following me down the street -- sometimes ducking into bushes or hiding behind car tires when I looked back. But it was definitely following me. And I would feel dread in the dream, and start to run. I would get to the house only to find no one home, and the door is locked. I usually had no key. I'd see the little creature coming closer and closer to me as I frantically tried to get into the house. I always woke up (and still wake up) before the little animal reaches my legs.

And over the years, this dream has changed very little, but the interesting thing is that the locations in the dreams have changed. I dream of other houses we lived in in NJ, and apartments I've lived in here in Arizona, and a few months ago I dreamed our current house. In that case, I was in the backyard in my dream, and a squirrel jumped over the block wall and chased me as I ran to the backdoor, which was, of course, locked.

I'll probably never know why I dream this, and at this point I'd bet that I'll continue to have a variation on this dream for the rest of my life from time to time. That's interesting to me... that my brain likes to 'play' this little dream-plot over and over again, only it switches up the details.

I sort of wish the dream would be funnier. I would like to dream that I am in Vegas, at a high-roller poker table or something. In the dream, I know how to play poker. And I am cool; hip, even. I am suave, for a lady. People are crowding around to watch me play. But then, out of the corner of my eye, appears the dreaded squirrel. He's running over the gaudy casino carpet, right towards me, dodging cocktail waitresses. I throw my cards up and run away, towards the elevators...but DAMN IT, where is that goddamn elevator? I am pushing buttons frantically as other tourists look at me nervously. I see the squirrel approaching (and he is now wearing a little showgirl outfit) and I scream as I wake up.

Or maybe I dream I am climbing up a snowy Mt. Everest. At last, me and my team reaches the peak. We set up camp for the cold night. I pitch a tent, and head over to the little delicatessan that has been opened up on Mt. Everest. It's a decent deli, with a great turkey sandwich. As I head back to my tent in the snow, out of the corner of my goggled eyes appears the dreaded snow squirrel. It scampers over the snow towards me, wearing what looks like little snowshoes. I drop my hot chocolate and scream as I plow through snow and whipping wind towards my tent. Even the sled dogs, and Cuba Gooding Jr., who is there to tend to said sled dogs, do nothing but howl forlornly and look helpless as I plod past. The squirrel is GETTING CLOSER, and I get to my tent...but DAMN IT, the zipper is stuck! What the hell do I do now? The air is thin, I get dizzy as the squirrel leaps towards my snow-panted legs, and I scream as I wake up.

So, in closing, here's hoping my brain takes a clue from these lovely scenarios and mixes my inevitable reoccuring chased-by-rodents dreams up a little. I consider myself a somewhat creative person, so I just want my dreams to get with the program and try a little harder. There's potential hidden in this misshapen skull of mine.

*Much thanks to Diane for that photo.

You know how I was so happy for rain in that last post? Well, I blogged too soon because we didn't really get any rain beyond those few sprinkles. What we got was THIS:

Dust storms. They look cool rolling in, but they do not make anything wet.

It's raining! I hear thunder, and see flashes of lightning outside...! I cannot express how exhilirating this is. It's been months since we had rain. Seriously. Months.

Anyway, I hope it will amount to more than just a speckle of drops on the sidewalk outside. Arizona rain teases you like that. My fingers are crossed that it will be a good storm tonight.

Have you ever seen Moonlighting? I never did. In fact, I thought I'd hate it. If it was on back in the day, I'd switch the channel. I never liked Bruce Willis or Cybill Shepherd back then. Well, we got disc one of Season 1 on Netflix and while I've only seen one episode--the pilot-- I am impressed with it. Surprisingly. The writing IS good. Bruce Willis is wryly funny and he looks young and hilarious with hair. This was probably the best Cybill ever got, or will get. I hear she's a bitch and no one will work with her. Too bad. She had good comedic timing on Moonlighting.

Anyway, I am off to watch episode 2 with Greg. He's gotten me into more great shows and movies than I can count.

And in case I didn't make my point clear enough already: IT IS RAINING. Yay!

My brain's always churning out crap, and here's the latest crap-nugget:

Manicooties = Herpes you receive from a gentleman of Italian descent.

Leezer wrote something pretty cool today regarding her thoughts on the US annexing Mexico, and I liked it so much I am posting a link to it here.

Sure, the idea has its problems... but you have to wonder just WHAT the solution to all these illegal immigration issues is really going to be in the long run. And truly, for the life of me I never could understand why the Mexican government couldn't just get its shit together so their people wouldn't spend all their energy LEAVING. Doesn't it bug them that their own citizens don't want to stay? Ahhh, I dunno.

Thinking makes my brain ouchy.

It's that Harry Potter time of the year again. Sigh. I've read all the Harry Potter books, and will buy the new one and read it at some point, because it would be dumb to read all of the books and then not read the FINAL book in the series. But I'm gonna come out and say it: I am kind of tired of Harry Potter.

The thing is, all the books run together for me after book 3. Once Sirius was dead I didn't care anymore, I guess. He was an interesting character, and I wasn't ready to have one of the only cool characters just die like that so early on in the series. And the story structure itself is predictable. It's always the same: they get to Hogwarts, trouble starts, things are not what they seem, Snape gets on Harry's case, there's some pointless Quidditch (I hate whenever a big scene involving Quidditch happens in the books and the movies... sports? No, thanks. Especially if it is a flying sport with made-up rules and special gold balls called Golden Snitches. Makes me want to take a very long bathroom break and come back when it's over), there are awkward adolescent crush-moments, Hermione gets all smartish about something, someone dies, school year ends, and the threat of Voldemort remains lingering over everything. The formula has worn out its welcome for me. It bores me.

And I am sick of the movies. I saw some footage of the big Hollywood premiere and I wanted to slap those kids. They are growing up not-so-cute. I used to think Hermione was adorable and now I think she looks stuck-up. And every time I see Daniel Radcliffe I feel a little ill. I guess I can't get that disturbing poster for Equus out of my head, and that's not good because he's just a KID and kids shouldn't be parading their wankers around on stage and then going back to playing wholesome Harry Potter like nothing happened. Something happened, alright, and it wasn't kosher, in my book. Call me a prude, whatever... I simply don't want to think about Potter's Junk. Period.

Some of my very best friends love Harry Potter, and I am happy for them that the book and movie are coming out. I wish I could have kept my enthusiasm for it, too, but I guess it wasn't meant to be. They are fun books, and JK Rowling is a genius for what she has created, and there's always room for decent fantasy books that reach a wide, mainstream audience. I do respect the whole thing. It's just... ehh.

And I have to say one more thing: why is it that a "house" exists in the Harry Potter universe with a name like Hufflepuff, and yet those poor souls who are in Hufflepuff never get to do much of anything interesting? All that matters is the house Harry is in, and the house Snape and the Malfoys are in (and OK, Slytherin is a cool name, too). I have always wanted more Hufflepuff. My wishes have gone unanswered. And for that, I thumb my nose at Harry and his little band of magical cohorts. They shoulda been Hufflepuffs.

Because I just like to say Hufflepuff and think of cottony little owls getting all worked up and puffing out their chests in some sort of owl-anger.

There's no reason for this, but it's still one of my all-time favorite things that's ever been broadcast on TV.

"From this day forward, no one shall insult the fat, lowly wildebeast."


Happy 07-07-07! May you all enjoy your own light shows.

PS: I won't feel bad if you quit watching about two minutes in or so.

July? When did it become July? Oh, what's that you say... today? Today it became July? Well, hot damn. Color me red and call me an Injun. That's crazy!

Anyway, we have good stuff to do this week! We're taking a road trip to Six Flags Magic Mountain. Me and my wacky husband will be taking off in the Rav4 for two nights of California madness and hopefully a touch o' mayhem. We'll be spending the 4th in a theme park!

This is where it will get exciting. I wonder how my old, creaky and sickly body is going to fare when it comes to being strapped into roller coasters, scramblers, loop-de-loops and flibberdee floos. I bet my teeth will chatter as the pain ripples down my compromised spine. I'll feel tremors in my ruptured disk and along nerves that have been enjoying a peaceful, non-jarring existence for the past 10-odd years. It should be wicked cool. I can't wait to see how many different views they will want to take on my x-rays. Wonder if I'll get good painkillers, or just marginal painkillers. They better not tell me to just go to Walgreens and pick up extra strength Tylenol and apply ice to my back. Eff that. I know how it will go down, and I know I will want what's coming to me. And what's coming to me is hardcore pain relief, damn it. Even if I've got to suck someone off in an alley to get it, I will have the good stuff, by God.

And then there will be the stomach upset. The ever-present threat of sunshine-induced migraines. Maybe some very sore feet coupled with scraped elbow (because I will trip at some point). Oh, man, this trip is going to rock me to the very core. Literally. My 'core' will be sprayed all inside my adult diapers once those rides are through with me!

Ahh, but I jest. I believe we will be FINE. I never once became nauseous on a ride, and I know how to stabilize my spine by tightening my core muscles, similar to what one does when lifting weights. The pleasure and unbridled fun will ease any slight aches and pains. Not to mention the greasy, expensive Six Flags food we'll ingest. Churros, pretzels, cotton candy, ice cream and hamburgers. What could be better than that shit for the Fourth of July! I can't think of anything. I believe our forefathers had celebrations like this in mind the day they signed that bitchin' Declaration of Independence. You KNOW John Hancock would be riding that Batman ride right next to Ben Franklin. They'd even scream like fratboys when their buckle shoes would go flying off as they went through those corkscrew turns. Then they would get off the ride, head to the beer garden, chill and cruise for hotties. That's what this holiday is all about: those dudes and their awesomeness.

I'm getting ahead of myself here, because it is still Sunday night right now and that means I shoudl go to bed so I can be bright and alert at work tomorrow. The party hasn't started yet. Duty in the form of work calls me like a siren on the high rocks of responsibility. But come Tuesday morning... look out. All bets are off. We're completely guano insane. It'll just be us, the open road, a cooler with snacks and refreshments and maybe a few dead drifters along the way.

We are going to bring Magic to that Mountain for reals, yo. Our special brand of magic. I can't divulge all the details, because then I'd have to come and kill you, but suffice to say our magic will involve sunburn, ear-splitting screaming, Abe Vigoda, a few human kidneys and several plumbers (sans pants). Classic!

This trip is a long time coming, I might add. Look at us and how completely tired of all this everyday crap we are: I know what you're thinking: "Poor devils. They truly need a holiday!" Well, we are ready to kick Independence Day ass by freaking the hell out at an expensive theme park and hopefully killing its scary dancing old man. And that's final.