Hello from Shmisneyland!

We're taking a little vacation here in Shmisneyland. Yes, Shmisneyland, because if the Shmisney corporation isn't going to give up its copyright hold on Grickey Grouse, they're certainly not going to react well to what I have to say about Shmisneyland. There was logic in there somewhere.

All that aside, let's talk about lines. You've stood in them before, and I'm standing in them now: the endless Shmisneyland lines that weave in, out, around, under, over, and back. The lines that are so convoluted you'd swear they were designed by M.C. Escher and--every so often--you'd swear you can see yourself going the other way.

You can.

How do I know this? I tried to cheat. Yes, it's shameful, but I did it, and there it is. The Dog wasn't happy with me, but I did not travel all this way to spend my time staring at the outside of Trash Mountain. So, with a little careful application of Baumgarten's (R) Plastic Clips, I shortened the line for Rich, Morgan and me. Then we passed the sign telling us we had a twenty minute wait. Again.

That's right, we went past the sign again.

"That's impossible," I said.
"You made the line longer," said Morgan. "I want a refund."
"Did you mess up the spell?" asked Rich.
"No," I said, "and you didn't pay me anything to do that spell anyway. No refund."
"Dog?" asked Morgan.
"He did it right," said The Dog. "There's something strange here."
"Hey," said Rich, "is that us over there?"

There you have it. Incontrovertible proof that the Shmisney company bends time and/or space to trap you in lines so long you finally go crazy and find yourself smiling back at the nut-jobs in princess costumes, and then you buy grouse ears.

Happiest place on earth? I don't think so.