The most magical place on Earth, my ass... a tragedy in two parts

The other week, I went to a wedding in Orlando. While with some exceptions, weddings are usually not much to write about, this one was different. It was at Walt Disney World. While when I was younger, I always looked forward to going to Disney World, as I have matured I have come to discover Disney for what it truly is: a marketing and capitalistic scheme gone awry where image is given dominance over substance in an effort to create a demand in children to get their parents to fork over large amounts of money for a quasi-"magical" experience. So, I guess you could say, I'm not exactly a fan of the Fucking Mouse.

I picked up a friend on my way to Orlando and she, who also hates the Fucking Mouse, and I were off to the world of the commercialized Tinkerbell. Because the wedding was an evening wedding we stayed on Disney property and, since I didn't realize we were actually staying on Disney property, I did not make suggestions of which hotel to stay in, such as the stunning Grand Floridian or the luxurious Yacht Club. Rather, my friend made reservations at one of the hotels the bride's mother had suggested, the Pop Century Resort.

After an almost unsuccessful attempt to find the "resort," (which is never a good sign) we finally drove into the parking lot of the hotel which a friend later described to me as the "Motel 6 of Disney property." I personally think that description fails to give Motel 6 the respect it deserves. Nevertheless, as we drove up we were greeted with a series of five large buildings, each with huge illuminated "architecture." Additionally, each building had phrases on the top such as "Groovy" or "Don't have a cow man!" Upon discovering the outside of the main lobby building, I realized that the "Pop Century" meant each building had a different decade theme, so the "architecture" I saw were enormous "Rubik's cubes" for the 80's and giant "cell phones" for the 90's (complete with Disney's main number on the cell phone screen.) The phrases on the top of the building were sayings that found their origin in the particular decade. My friend and I looked at each other and said, almost in unison, "I fucking hate the Fucking Mouse."

Oh yes. I was in the most magical hell on the face of the Earth.

Because of holiday weekend traffic, my friend and I were in a bit of a rush to get changed and get to the Fucking Mouse Wedding Pavilion. So we make our way into the Fucking Mouse Pop Century lobby with a desire to get to our room as quickly as possible. We rush to the registration and get in the line. Of course, in Fucking Mouse fashion, there's a 90-foot empty maze to get to the part of the line that matters and, I must admit I was surprised (and even commented to my friend) that the line didn't include signs that said, "15 minute wait from this point."

And that's when I first discovered that the Fucking Mouse is about as efficient as chewing your way through a lead pipe.

Although we have only two people in front of us, we waited over twenty-five minutes for someone to help up. In true Fucking Mouse efficiency, although there were seven employees behind the registration counter, only three were actually registering guests. And I use the phrase "registering guests" in a rather loose sense of the term. One of the Fucking Mouse employees was chatting with the guest and dancing to the disco music that was causing my ears to rupture and bleed. Another was showing a guest where different places were on a Disney property map (how about directing that to the Concierge who doesn't have anyone in line?!?!). While I can't be sure, I think the third employee was picking her nose and showing it to a guest, claiming it was going to magically grow into a carriage to take her to the royal ball.

Fucking Mouse.

We finally get to the registration desk and my friend says, "We want to be the fastest registration you've had all day!" Yeah, right. Like that's a real accomplishment with Speedy Gonzalez over here. "Here's the credit card, here's the reservation number." Move Fucking Mouse boy, move! To his credit, he did actually attempt to check us in quicker than the people before us. But then, despite the fact that the line actually grew in the twenty-five minutes we were in it, Fucking Mouse employee number two (dancing boy) actually stops checking in people to talk to us! First of all, we really had no desire to talk to another Fucking Mouse employee. These people are Stepford Wife freakish enough. Second, uh dipshit, don't you have something more important to do than talk with us, like clear the line growing behind us by the minute?

My friend and I finally make our way to our room, which has to be one on the edge of the "resort" and we undertake a mad dash to get there so we can change for the wedding. After having a personal freak-out session when we thought the Fucking Mouse employee failed to properly scan our cards, we tried a few more times to open the door and eventually successfully made our way into our room. Besides the truly horrid decor, Fucking Mouse commercialism couldn't even escape the room. Smack dab in the middle of the room was a framed Fucking Mouse poster.

I quickly changed into my suit and, while I was waiting for my friend to change, I turned on the television and sorted through the Fucking Mouse-Viacom owned stations. At least they own ESPN. As I always do, I then began to search around the room for little things like the mini-bar. Yeah. Right. Not in this craphole.

My friend then called the front desk for directions to the Fucking Mouse Wedding Pavilion, which, by the way, we were due at in around forty-five minutes. She and the Fucking Mouse employees had the following conversation:

"Hi. I need to get to the Disney Wedding Pavilion pretty quickly. How do I get there?"

"Go to the front of the resort. Take a bus to the Magic Kingdom. When you get to the Magic Kingdom, get on the monorail. Take that to the Wedding Pavilion area. Then walk a mile and a half to the pavilion and you're there."

"Uh...that seems like a long way. How long will that take?"

"The estimated time is about an hour and a half to an hour and forty-five minutes."

"Like I said, we need to be there sooner than that. Is there anything quicker?"

"Well, that's the directions."

"Uh...yeah...thanks."

"Thanks for calling the front desk and have a magical evening!"

Have a magical evening. Seriously, take that magical phrase and substitute "Go fuck yourself." That's what these Fucking Mouse employees are really thinking.

It was then that I suggested we call a cab so if our plan to get considerably inebriated comes to fruition, neither my friend nor I have to drive back to the "resort." After all, nothing spoils a trip to the Fucking Mouse than going to Fucking Mouse jail.

My friend responded, "Fine. You call."

"Hi. I have to get to the Wedding Pavilion. Quickly. And the directions we were given won't get us there in time. Can you call me a cab?"

"Hold on sir. I'll connect you with a taxi company."

They won't call the cab for you? Even the Miami International Airport calls the cab for you and there people shoot at you. What a fucking joke.

"Thanks for calling the front desk and have a magical evening."

Yeah, go fuck yourself too.

"Yeah. This is [such and such] cab company."

It was then that I was able to explain that I needed a taxi and where I was going. Of course, in order to get the taxi, we (including my friend in high heels) had to walk all the way back to the lobby from our remote room. And while I adore my friend, her decision not to send her rather large and fragile gift ahead of time wasn't exactly her most brilliant moment. Less than ten minutes later and after some chatting with the taxi driver (a skill I developed in D.C.), we were at the Fucking Mouse Wedding Pavilion.

Hour and a half my ass.