Getting groped by security guards is the only fun you'll have at Universal CityWalk

universal studios citywalk is a slice of tourist orlando that locals only venture into on two desperate occassions: extreme boredom or the saturday night live production of "the rocky horror picture show."

Rye and i did the latter several months ago. because we are classy modern women, we emptied my purse and filled it with beer bottles. rocky horror is fun on its own, of course, but any mood-altering substance proves to be more beneficial to the artistic content.

i hadn't been to citywalk in months, so we were both shocked when we approached the entrance to what is essentially little more than overpriced stores, bad food, a movie theater and nightclubs frequented by german tourists:

security was everywhere. they were demanding id's from anyone who wanted to enter. worse, they were searching bags. a lot of them resembled the redneck bullies we all knew in high school, the ones with classy bumper stickers on their pickups that said things like "Save A Horse, Ride A Cowgirl."

in the handicapped stall of the ladies' bathroom, we pounded those beers in a hurry, the entire time praying that a fat woman on a scooter would not start ramming the door with a sense of urgency.

we made it thru the checkpoint already drunk, and we noticed security guards roaming everywhere and cameras posted in places i had never seen cameras before. it terrified me.
i vowed to never return, but a group of us ended up there on saturday evening. the goal was to see "the x-files," and citywalk unfortunately has the latest movie showings in town.
the police academy droputs were especially angry tonight, making me walk back out of the gate to throw away a coke purchased from sonic and molesting my handbag. i think the security guard, who kind of looked like carlton from "the fresh prince," sensed my hostility and touched every tampon and old piece of hard candy i had in that bag, groping each item with the same hands he intentionally pissed on a few minutes earlier.

you're not allowed to say anything because of the "please step aside" fear, so along we moved like cattle. highlights of the evening include touring a hotel that looks like venice (ooooh), actually buying beverages without alcohol in them (it's really fucking hot in florida right now), and completely missing our movie time for the second night in the row.

i almost felt free, free enough that i took off my shoes on the walk back to the cars. i rarely wore shoes during my childhood so being barefoot feels far more natural than cramming my tooties into adorable yet painful shoes. i was only twenty feet from my car when i saw the security car roll up out of the corner of my eye.

"ma'am?"

i pretended to search for my blackberry and ignore it.

"ma'am?"

dammit.

"huh?" i turned around. the girl was no older than 19, driving a scooter, and wearing an oversized yellow shirt that read "security."

"we need you to put your shoes back on," she said, even though she was alone and there wasn't a we. "you are not allowed to walk barefoot in our parking lot."

so of course i did what anybody would do. i hurled one of my shoes at her head, but it missed, so i threw the other one. the spike hit her in the head, puncturing an artery and creating a terrible blood bath.

actually, i threw my shoes onto the ground, stuck my feet in them, and sulked all the way back to the car. i bitched about the shoe incident to anybody willing to listen, which turned out to be only two people. Rye agreed it was bullshit so of course i'm only going to share her opinion.

leave it to a theme park to ruin any fun left in the world.

Rant About Restaurants: We’ve All Been There

why the fuck do restaurants pack dozens of tiny little tables into large spaces?

do eating establishments do this as a form of punishment? do they get some sort of sick amusement out of watching people squirm in discomfort?

you know what i'm talking about. you enter a restaurant with a hungry tummy and a slight excitement which dims when your hostess leads you to a tiny table in the middle of the room. she does this despite the fact that there are at least three booths open. you want to say something about changing tables, but this could lead to spit or pubes in your food, so you decide to keep your mouth shut.

in order to get into your seat, your ass is forced to brush against the arm of the diner sitting at the table within a mere inch or two of your own. as you sit down, she shoots you the stink eye.

i don't know the specifics of your dining conversations, but being as i'm a young single professional female, mine almost always involve fucking, pubic hair shaving, bowel movements, and other fun topics all peppered with colorful language and fueled by 2-for-1 specials from the bar.

i might just say something like "my asshole really itches...can you scratch it for me?" as i empty the bread basket.

because i am doomed to an eternity sitting at cramped little restaurant tables with the other minions while the breeders and their crotchfruit dine in the booths, it's not until halfway thru the meal that i realize the total strangers five inches to my left and right have stopped eating and fallen quiet. these people are absolutely no fun, of course, but i can understand. i don't want to hear anymore about their family vacations than they do about my itching colon.

keep in mind that i'm not simply referring to cheap restaurants. these are fine dining establishments like The Cheesecake Factory and The Olive Garden, so i don't understand why us diners are forced to become intimate with strangers we'd never want to talk to in a million years, much less dine with.

i can dream that one day i will actually sit in a booth. until then, pardon me while my crotch brushes against your fork.

he's young, hot, and orange