Surviving Disney World, Part II
Besides money and the people forcing you to spend it, I also encourage bringing the following items:
A generous supply of "real person food." Disney World's culinary department is apparently managed by that evil wizard kid who trapped Nancy Cartwright inside a television set in "The Twilight Zone" movie, triggering her subsequent conversion to Scientology. While the parks may bill themselves as a land of endless dreams, you can bet your ass that's the one thing your kid won't be getting the night after he gnaws on Pluto-shaped chocolate jerky dipped in ranch dressing, sucks down gallons of Coca-Cola brand products (now with additional vitamin sugar!), and generally engages in the great American past time: developing diabetes.
Please consult the following handy and factual diagram for further Disney nutritional information.
An entire pharmacy. While the cost of food seems quasi-reasonable, at least compared to eating a pound of gold marinated in gasoline, ol' Walt has no problems ransacking your wallet in exchange for medication to make you poop less, poop more, or poop a different type of poop than you're currently pooping. Perhaps that was his sinister scheme all along; serve up cheap, disgusting food at a low price, then nail 'em in the credit card once they begin puking up congealed cholesterol. Mickey Mouse charged me an obscene $8.00 for six damn Zantac tablets. I could've bought a brand new stomach for that price.
At this point, I'd like to offer a wakeup call for all you batty nutjobs who believe it's somehow possible to not get sick during your Disney World vacation. Upon setting foot in Orlando, it becomes not a matter of "if," but rather "when" you will become infected with a deadly, mutant strain of Walt Disney-copyrighted malaria. I personally received my disease ticket around 2:30 AM, the day of our flight's departure, and spent the subsequent day crouched over our hotel toilet like a lanky dog asserting his dominance over a small refrigerator.
Now as much as I despise exaggeration and absolutely refuse to engage it in no matter what the cost, I'm afraid it's technically impossible for me to describe exactly how atrocious my entire soul felt that day. I was so sick that I began throwing up things my wife ate. Midway through hour four of Disney's Dysentery Adventure, bonus items began flowing from my anus like the mighty Mississippi, transforming me into the world's most revolting human fountain. If it weren't for the atheism-inspiring stench, I probably could've obtained a military contract to camouflage US Army toilets that night, assuming the government didn't mind pieces of undigested ground beef and onions in their camouflage.
Once the puking slowed down, a fever slammed into me like a department store falling from a cargo plane. My barf-inspired rapid dehydration panicked my brain, which began trying to escape from my head through individual skin pores. My skull was throbbing, my body was shivering uncontrollably from the chills, and I was powering two high pressure Super Soakers filled with liquid meat... yet the worst was yet to come. You Disney Disease veterans out there undoubtedly know exactly where this is leading. Yes, this is the moment when Walt's rotting, frozen corpse reached into my brain and flipped the "endless looping Disney tunes" switch.
Thanks to my daughter's obsession with "Beauty and the Beast," I have suffered through Belle's song "This Provincial Life" more times than all people responsible for creating it. Despite the millions of songs in Disney's expansive collection, Lauren prefers to incessantly sing the one which is basically a teenager's Livejournal entry bitching about how retarded the people in her town are. After Gaston throws Belle's book over his shoulder, she starts going on about how it pisses her off when people leave their shopping carts in the middle of the Wal-Mart parking lot.
In those early morning hours, during my desperate fight against Disney Disease, is when Walt's dirty, evil spirit flipped on my brain's poisonous soundtrack and Belle lurched into her enchanting tune... over and over and over again. Although the toxins in my stomach were fleeing at an alarming rate, I simply could not escape from that goddamn provincial life, leading me to believe Belle was raised in Silent Hill. I was a prisoner trapped in my own body, unable to reassure or soothe myself outside of contemplating suicide by somehow hijacking and flying a 747 into Belle while a second airliner hits Gaston.
So, in other words, bring medicine with you.