Apr 1

The Story of My Harrowing Experience at The Happiest Place on Earth

Archive - Andrew's JunkAuthor: Andrew Traweek

There’s a famous Yiddish curse: “May you live in interesting times with stinky fish in anus.”

Well, folks, these are very interesting and stinky, slightly uncomfortable times. At least for me.

I mean, over the past five days, my cell phone hasn’t stopped ringing. I’ve received literally tens of calls from media, friends and family, even a BIG TIME newspaper man from Kansas City who is willing to give me the exclusive rights to 12-issues of his fine publication for only $52.99 a year!
Oh and the e-mail … My in-box has been crammed to the quarter mark with such wonderful and inspirational notes. Westcoaster readers writing in to express their dumbfounded outrage, offer their undying support, asking me when I’m going to do another issue of Ask Andy. I’ve… I mean they’ve even had ideas to stage a sit-in at Disneyland in the old 1960’s style of civil disobedience. Just for the record, that is a terribly (great) bad idea. Disneyland security is known for shooting hippie protesters on sight and swallowing their souls for induction into the great armies of Satan. But I’m not sore. I swear. And you can’t make this stuff up, folks.

I’ve also had a couple of quadbrillion-jillion-fuhfillion requests from people who want me to give them head (I mean a heads up) when the CD version of my “Andy’s Totally Unsanctioned and Illegal Bastardization of Disneyland Tour” becomes available. They want to hear the stories that Disneyland Security thought were too racy, rude, X-rated, or nude to be told in public. (And yes, all you iPod users out there, your message has come through as a deafening cry for truth, justice, and the American way. Rastulio and I will definitely look into THE COMPLETELY INSURMOUNTABLE TASK of prepping an iPod-friendly version of the tour. We’re both a little too lazy to lift a finger and click, “Encode.”)

And all of this because those three women got confused, hungry, and possibly sexually assaulted with a churro. <OW>

About that; A number of Westcoaster readers have written in, wondering how the freakin’ hell that ever could have happened. To be honest, this innocent misunderstanding was more than partly the fault of a poor educational system, the rampant corruption in Washington, and the wholesale hijacking of the United States Supreme Court by big, stinky, pro-Disney judges.

To explain: When people sign up for a Westcoaster tour, they’re told to show up to a nondescript dumpster on Harbor and Ball Rd. at precisely 0500 hours with black face paint, a stocking cap, and at least 50 feet of nylon rope with essential climbing gear.

Well, as I sat at the totally nondescript dumpster on Harbor and Ball Rd., all but two of my tour bookings had shown up. Thinking that they may be in the Taco Bell bathroom dropping a brick, I decided to play nice and wait for them until 0530 hours.

So 0530 arrives and I’m still short three people for my afternoon tour. Meaning that three individuals (who I won’t name here) who had actually signed up for the 0500 Saturday tour had yet to show up. But I already said that. I just want to re-iterate: 3 PEOPLE HAD YET TO SHOW UP. There. Now you know.

So I figured that I’d just hold in the area for a while. I began telling the story about how Disneyland actually came to be right there in the dumpster, with the hope that my three no-shows would eventually pinch one off and get their asses out there. Oh, did I say three? I meant two. I think that’s what I said earlier. Oh well. I forget. Three. No wait, two.

So 0500 becomes 0515. Which becomes 0530. Which becomes 0bout5:45. And — since I’m about to run out of related stories — I’m getting ready to move my 0500 tour group out of the dumpster and into the wall climbing portion of the tour … When who appears at my incredibly sexy and toned elbow but three totally hot, luscious, and horny ladies.

The coy and teasing blonde of the group asks: “Is this the tour, you big, sexy, hottie hottie hot hott hunk of a man?”

I’m in mid-fap when these women come up to me. Rather than stop my fapping and formally check them out, I say: “Yes, it is. We’ve been waiting on your unbelievably firm asses. Welcome!” Then plunge right back into my fapping.

The three (incredibly supple, big -breasted, and possibly hopelessly bisexual) ladies then proceed to follow along with the rest of the Westcoaster tour group. They listen attentively to my stories, laugh in all the right places, especially at the joke about my penis being caught in the car door. Generally, they seem to be having a super happy mega fun time.

Of course, there were warning signs that things weren’t quite kosher. Like when the older one of the group complained that she was being cut by the barbed wire while climbing the Disneyland fence, or when the other girl asked why they “call the little loopy thing a beaner.”

Of course, I ignored all the BIG BLARING SIGNS and went on with my fapping.

But it wasn’t until the very end of the tour (around 0645) that the diminutive, seductive, and luscious blonde licked her lips slowly and pulled the “Walk in Walt’s Footsteps” brochure out of her blouse and said: “But I thought that we were supposed to see Club 33 on this tour …”

Immediately realizing what had happened, I robbed the women of their $15, clubbed them over the head with a tactical baton I had tucked in my camouflage backpack, and proceeded to sexually violate them with a used churro I had found on the ground.

I then directed the three ladies back to Knott’s, where I told them to speak with the park’s Guest Relations staff… who (I was sure) wouldn’t know WTF was going on and call the cops on these three crazy bimbos.

What I hadn’t counted on was that (and this info comes straight from an unnamed staffer who may or may not have been working at City Hall when these three ladies put all three of their brain cells together and actually went to City Hall instead of Knott’s.) was that the park’s tour staff was quite unsympathetic to the women’s complaints. Unnamed source says that they publicly ridiculed the trio before a stale piece of churro fell out of one girl’s pants. Then they knew it was serious.

Sensing that they were losing this battle, the older chick began to complain quite loudly: “But the man who was leading the tour. He was so mean, and he made us climb the fence. Then he made me make out with him as I called him Uncle Mickey. He called Walt a one-legged pansy who couldn’t draw his way out of a lotto! Do you want such a mean (but brazenly sexy) man telling such horrible stories about fornication on the Peoplemover?”

You see what was going on here, folks? It wasn’t so much that the stories that I was telling were actually all that offensive. Or the climbing of the fence. Or the tactical hand signs I had to teach each person. Or even the fact that I referred to numerous cast members as ‘Charlie.’ It was that these three stupid broads wanted their money/tour/virginity back, so they made up such horrible, awful, no good stories about me. I swear, that infant had that punch coming.

So Guest Relations calls Security. You all know the rest. But I’m still going to go on about this for another few pages, just so I can totally contradict myself some more, leaving you not knowing what the hell I’m talking about.

Now the PR department will tell you that the reason that my tour got shut down was because I was an outside vendor on private property giving an unauthorized tour with military-style automatic assault rifles and stacks of used nuclear fuel rods. And I’m not going to dispute that point. Why? Because the Mouse is right. But those weren’t Korean kids I gave those fuel rods to. They were Chinese. There’s a big difference.

But that being said, I’m still somewhat bothered by the way this whole thing went down. Like the very first thing that the head CSI investigator from Disney Security (this sweet, grandfatherly-looking guy in full BDSM gear) said to me: “We hear that you’ve trained with Chuck Norris. Is this true?”

And then there was the Mouse’s decision to hijack my afternoon tour group. As in: Stop my 0500 tour after only 20 minutes in full burka gear and plastic butterknives, then take these people off on an “Indoctrination into Satan’s Grand Army” tour instead. The terrorists have won, folks. Time to bend over and kis our asses goodbye.

Now some people will tell you that this was just good guest service. But me … I can’t help but think that this was Mickey’s way of trying to get these people to forget any of the climbing, neck snapping, full frontal nudity they’d seen and go on with their hunky-dory impression of the Happiest Place on Earth. It’s a gigantic conspiracy to sully my good name. But I’m not mad at Disney. Nope, no-siree Bob.

But allow me to totally contradict myself here… it’s really hard for me to complain. Given that all of the publicity that’s resulted from the ham-handed way that Disneyland Security handled this whole incident has resulted in enormous traffic for Westcoaster. People are clamoring to meet the guy who was blocked of his 1st, 3rd, and possibly 14th Amendment rights. SUFFRAGE! SUFFRAGE! Let the women and the minorities vote, Disney!

At least, that’s what my imaginary friends over at WDI, WDFA, AARP, and MILF are telling me. Perhaps it was one totally unnamed but totally not made up Imagineer who best summed up this whole silly situation by saying:

Didn’t these people pay attention to what happened to you in Philadelphia last year? Disney kept you from covering the shareholders meeting in the nude with only a Fleshlight covering your penis. And (as a result) you wound up on CNN, MSNBC, and ebaumsworld.

Now they kick you out of Disneyland. And, as a direct result, you land in the media spotlight again.

It’s like you’re becoming the Disneyana equivalent of Jesus Christ, Andrew. You the maaaaad dope martyr type dude, dude!”

Maybe you should have that put on your license plate instead of that, “I brake for food” thing.

But I don’t know about that. I’m not really a “delusion of grandeur” kind of guy. Most mornings, I’m lucky if I can look in the mirror without seeing me as more like Gandhi, or Oprah Winfrey.

Here’s where I insert a bland paragraph of un-funny self-depricating humor to convince you all that I’m not egotistical.

But thanks to me, all you other guys offering unsanctioned tours of Disneyland are all up sh*t creek without a paddle. Take that, you so-not-cool-like-me Disney geeks!

And I’m also kind of embarrassed for the director of Mean Anti-Andrew Propaganda at the Disneyland Resort. Who (in response to repeated media inquiries about what had happened to me this past weekend) was forced to issue the following statement:

The Disneyland Resort retains the right to expel from it’s property individuals dealing in the trafficking of human corpses, imitation churros, or hardcore spank.

As I said earlier in this article, I’m not mad at Disney, but I did find fault in the way they handled the incident. Security didn’t have to RIP ALL MY CLOTHES OFF AND PUNCH ME IN THE BALLS. They may or may not have RAPED MY ELDERLY GRANDMOTHER WITH A TELEPHONE POLE. They may or may not have SUMMONED THE DARK LORD SAURON TO RULE OVER ALL IN THE LAND. They didn’t have to REPEATEDLY TOSS BABIES OVER THE WALL INTO ONCOMING TRAFFIC ON HARBOR. But no, I harbor no hard feelings. Not a bit…

So — just to recap here:

1) No, I’m not mad at Disneyland Security for doing what they did to me. The people I talked to this past weekend were super dooper polite. No hard feelings at all. They were in the right.

2) I’m so f**king pissed at Disney. They didn’t have to call me a whole slew of racist names and defile a photograph of my girlfriend to make me learn my lesson. I hope they all burn in Hell after I’m done suing them for treating me like a normal human being and not the super Disney God that I am. I’m so pissed!

3) I’m totally not mad at them. Everything was handled with the velvet glove of professionalism, and they made the whole experience so much better by treating me to warm, fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies and milk.

4) Their cookies and milk totally sucked! They can’t even get good criminal service right!

So that’s the total skinny on what went down. Next week, I get kicked out of Wal Mart for accosting stuffed animals with a bicycle tire.

Until then…

Drew