A Tale of Two Shitties

We’re heading down to Disney.

We get through security thanks to my special ID that allows us to skirt the cattle-call lines of the masses.

Get to the gate and breeze right through the Elite “line,” if you can even call it that.

“Fuckstains,” I hear someone mutter, low.

Tuck me arse into First Class seat by the window.

“Pull the curtain on Coach, will you? Thanks.”

She does, dutifully. “Bloody Mary, sir?”

“Only if you have a potato vodka. Otherwise, mimosa. Long on bubbles. Short on pulp.”

Get to the hotel. Gently push people aside as I get to the “Diamond Member” check-in.

Give the guy a fiver as he plops the bags in front of bed bigger than most people’s apartments. What’s bigger than King size? Emperor? Czar? Duke?

It’s hot out. The relentless sun buns us all equally. This lack of order, of status or rank, buns me to no end. Without a pecking order, it’s just plain chaos.

I cool considerably strolling by while casting a glance at the rapidly reddening line-lovers before heading to and through the VIP Fastpass. “Tah. Fucking. Tah.”

At dinner I swear the manager is hitting on me he comes by so much.

Him: Your food is to your liking, sir?

Me: Delish.

Him: Thank you, sir. And your family? You are all enjoying your stay in the Kingdom? Neither kid looks up from their phones. I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt. They haven’t taken their headphones off since they got out of the pool. “The wife” smiles without even a glint of recognition.

That evening, one of the kids wakes up. I’m not sure which. They both look like their mother. Apparently the Coffee-Crusted filet does not play well with either his OCD or “Low T” meds. Side note: if ever there was a kid who needed to grow a pair, it’s this kid.

The hotel car service pulls around to the side of the hospital building. A doctor walks out to greet us. An orderly with a wheelchair walks behind him. Well behind him.

“I’ll see if I can perform some magic of my own.”

I smile the kind of smile that says, ‘This aint a fuckin’ social call, Doc,” and he gets a move on.

Fifteen minutes later I’m shaking his hand.

“I gave him some antacid and a sedative. Make tomorrow a pool day. No rides. Next day, he’ll be right as rain.”

“What about getting some fur on his peaches?”

“He’s eight.”

“But he’s a small eight. He’ll never be D1 anything at this rate.”

“Let me wave my Magic wand,” he says with a wink, placing a bottle of pills in my pocket. In the car service back to the hotel I read the label.

Keep out of the reach of women.

Our plane touches down back home. Our driver hurriedly grabs the luggage, which has multiplied since our departure just twenty-one days ago, and throws them in the back of the biggest, blackest suburban anyone had ever seen.

“HOV lane, Sammy. Step on it.”