Why Don’t You Watch Where You’re Walking!

We had a glorious start to our evening at Disneyland.

Dennis and I strolled through Downtown, walking on the right side of the walkway, as any person raised with common sense would do. We talked about our “plan of attack” – what rides we wanted to go on first and how we wanted to order Long Islands inside the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party for the sole purpose of obtaining more of those awesome Technicolor plastic ice cubes. (WARNING: not for people with seizure disorders.)

Crowded Downtown boasted screaming toddlers and oblivious tourists stopping in the middle of foot traffic to take a selfie. You know, THOSE PEOPLE who don’t know how to walk in public. Dennis and I can weave through those human hazards like a high performance vehicle, but there was another type of public douche-canoe that we didn’t prepare for.

We passed the Jazz Kitchen when a male arm slammed into the upper part of my shoulder. This dude was about six-feet tall – maybe just under – with a seventies porn-stash, and he just kept walking…didn’t even bother to glance down to see who he ran into. Logically, he should have apologized. I am a staggering height of four feet, eleven inches, and I understand that I am out of most tall people’s line of sight – because, you know, peripheral vision and shit – but when you accidentally run into someone, where your force is great enough to knock that person off-balance, laws of physics dictate that you are the inertia and laws of manners dictate that you must apologize.

I turned around and shouted, “Sorry would be nice.” He turned around and yelled back, “Watch where your walking would be nice!” I heard the incorrect grammar roll off his smug tongue as he said ‘your’. Then, I heard a voice. Samuel L. Jackson said, “Check out this motha-fucka!” Maybe I was hallucinating, but I swear I heard him whisper it in my ear. The Brooklyn and Italian blood in me boiled hotter than marinara in a pot, “You ran into me, you watch where you’re walkin’!” I became a G-Rated version of Andrew Dice Clay and suddenly craved a cigarette. Then I noticed that everyone was staring at me.

By that point, Dennis’ face heated to cartoon portions and the only thing keeping him and I from getting arrested under physical assault charges was the fear of getting our Disneyland passes revoked. So, we marched into California Adventure and played some Heads Up Charades as we waited in line to shoot virtual plates and ducks in Toy Story Mania – all in all, quite passive.

Disneyland is supposed to be the happiest place on earth, a place where people open the doors for one another and exchange, “After you”, “Oh, no, no, I insist, after you” over and over again. Disneyland is supposed to be a place that mystifies with its anal-retentive attention to detail and gives grown, bearded-men the confidence to proudly wear a pair of pink mouse ears. Disneyland is supposed to be like the commercials.

But nothing is ever as it seems, is it? And when you jam people past capacity into a place where they have to wait for their food and entertainment in 100 degree heat, someone is going to go home crying. But, I have already decided on what I will do differently next time; I will fall to the floor and wail in agony, because, apparently, apologies are only warranted when someone appears to be injured.

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