a n i m a t i o n . w o r d s & p i c t u r e s . f o r u m
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The Road to Hell...By: Ass-Slapper19.03.02 There was a little Spanish flea... A record star he thought he'd be... Wanted to sing like the Beatles and Chipmunks he'd seen on TV... Why not a little Spanish flea? For those of you familiar with the Simpson's, this song's hideous tune will ring through your mind at a constant basis, until you find me and subsequently slay me, or swallow the business end of a shotgun. Either way, don't mess the carpet up - I have chicks coming over later! Okay, a friend...okay, a plumber...okay, I'm going to sit in my chair with a wad of Kleenex and a jar of Vaseline, and I'm.... er...anyhoo, hearing this dour melody immediately elicits feelings which most people would associate, and rightly so, with a Mexican Carnival (and not the good kind, with the donkey); cheap, filthy, depraved, almost inhumane - a David Lynchian romp through the seedy underbelly of the subconscious. It is without further ado that I name this song the new anthem of Niagara Falls.  Please come to Niagara Falls! Get married here! We need the work! We're SO FUCKING HUNGRY! When a day worth of unseasonable warmth tossed its sexy little ass into town, I grabbed the opportunity to treat my little lady to a day of romance, excitement, and just plain zanery in the snazziest, most fan-tabulous place this side of Toronto.  That's right, folks... Granted, I had never been there before, but from the stories told by friends, and the plethora of newspaper ads, I was convinced that Jesus himself took his holy-bitches to the winding paths of Clifton Hill to guarantee a blowjob at the end of the day. And if Jesus could get his bony ass laid in Niagara Falls, I should be GOLDEN! We packed a bag, a fancy lunch, hopped in our sleek, stylish Toyota Tercel, and proceeded to rumble our four cylinder chariot of Japanese thunder and fury down the Q.E.W.  Jesus never had to put up with this. The drive was fine, and by that I mean completely fuck-o. Not since my grade eleven math exam did two hours pass by with such agonizing slowness. From Toronto to Hamilton is non-stop excitement; the Triad/Yakuza turf wars of Mississauga, the suburban sickliness of Oakville and Burlington, and the sheer, unadulterated filth of Hamilton - the Buffalo of Canada, if you will. Sure, they don't dazzle the senses, but at least those towns have some shit going on near the highway.  The ride went pretty smooth in a sweet ride like this! 0-60 in 27.8 seconds! After the last pollution belching smokepole of Hamilton is in your rear view mirror, all you're left with is the person in the passenger seat and your own imagination. Towns such as Beamsville and Grimsby offer all the metropolitan charm of a wet, sloppy fart, as shit-reeking farmlands hug the road with a tenacious, methane soaked embrace. Not even the brief respite of St. Catherine's could brighten the journey. However, we eventually arrived at the happiest place in Southern Ontario, and our adventure finally began. This is gonna be SWEET!  Just about as classy as they come. We found parking at the top of Clifton Hill for a modest $8 from my new friend Ahmed. I wrote my phone number on a small slip of paper, and coyly placed it in his hand. I hope he calls. At that point, instinct took over, and I dragged my fiancee down the hill like an abusive boyfriend at a school dance...I saw an ad in the Toronto Star, and I just had to confirm whether or not the best thing in the Universe actually did exist in this place. All of the buildings and people along the way were a blur - there will be time for their stories. At last, we arrived, and my wildest dreams became reality - Dinosaur Golf did truly exist!  Seal of Approval, baby! 65 million years. 18 holes. You do the math, hotshot. My elation was overwhelming...heart-rate exceeding safety limits...breathing quick and ragged...this was the shit that dreams were made of. A Raptor watched us as we gathered our clubs and balls, and proceeded into paradise. What joy! It was 18 holes of progressively more challenging zane! I felt like Tiger Woods, without the murderous, primal rage that we all know is lurking beneath his caramel skin...I finished with -1, climbed atop the T-Rex guarding the 18th hole, and proceeded to dry hump it whilst course security tried to coax me down, my fiancee weeping out of embarrassment. I was alive at that moment, children...alive and juicy with boyish joy!   That poor T-Rex never saw it coming! How quickly a dream can end. Afterglow. Coming down. The big wakeup. Call it what you will...the heroin-esque fix of dino-golf had slipped from my mind, once again leaving me with clarity, and a sickly awareness of my surroundings. Clifton Hill is one large, gussied up whore, flashing her wares to whoever passes by.  You try to make sense of it. The gift shops and toy stores were her eyeliner, the arcades her lipstick, and the armada of wax and world record museums her sticky, encrusted love tunnel. Ripley must be wiping his ass with gold earned from our Canadian amusement town; he had at least three little freak havens in plain site. We tried to get into one, but given the $12.50 price tag, and the fact that I had already spent $20 on Dino-golf, we decided that a quick visit to the lobby would suffice.  I curse you with high prices and gawdy scenery! BOOGETY-BOO! Besides, I didn't want to cheapen the time I had with my Triceratops golfing chum. He knew I'd be back. Ripley had nothing going on...perhaps it's a slow year in the realm of the unbelievable? Perhaps he saves the really cool shit for paying customers?    I'm sensing patent infringement here! You're FUCKED, Ripley! I'm more inclined to believe the latter...in one pass, we saw a perpetual motion machine (very obviously plugged into the wall) that looked more like that old board game Mouse Trap, a statue of the world's tallest man, and a replica of a wooden statue some African tribal superstar carved with knives made of - are you ready for this? - wood! I was experiencing sensory overload! Why didn't anyone prepare me?!?! That place needs a disclaimer! Warning: Utterly Retarded We made our way back down the hill, encased by the smells of smoke, vomit, and fudge, hoping to find some solace and romance by the water. As we once again passed Dinosaur Golf, I made eye contact with a little boy, who put his club over his shoulder and smiled at me. He knew how I felt, he saw the pain in my eyes, and he loved every second of it. That fucker is DEAD. Dear fucking CHRIST the people. We left the fair, and ended up on the floor of a stock exchange, an ocean of ethnicity standing before us. It was a thick, stinking gridlock of human bodies as literally tens of thousands of people traipsed, strolled and lollygaged along the boardwalk, drinking overpriced water and dragging screaming, uninterested children beside them. Kids, for fuck's sake...who in their right mind is convinced that a seven-year-old will even attempt to give two shits about a waterfall? Then again, if the parents were older than 16, I'm sure they would have realized this. Carving through the crowd brought me back to my days working at the daycare - the screaming, yelling demon spawn, whining and shitting themselves like the societal cancer that they collectively are...I was a diaper change away from becoming a complete bitch.  Try ploughing your way through that crowd. QUIT STARING at me, cum muffin! The water is reportedly a mass of pollution and filth, a fact that my nose agreed with wholeheartedly. Nothing says romance like an overpowering whiff of water-soaked sewage and dead fish. Do people literally line up and drop ass-cakes into the landmark? We walked from one end to the other, stopping along the way to take some pictures; the Canadian falls in their majesty, the American falls with people shooting each other in the face for crack money...it was all we could do to feel as though we had accomplished something that day. It felt like a complete and utter loss - a waste of hour upon hour, as our egg salad sandwiches fermented in their clear, Ziplocked glory. As the sun went down, her mind must have traveled back in time to when she was single, unburdened by pathetic boyfriends trying desperately to impress her with out-of-the- blue trips to strange, exciting places. I held her hand half-heartedly, staring longingly up the hill, hoping to make eye contact with Dino-Golf.  Daddy won't protect you for long, you little womb fart. Ever see a Columbian neck tie? The clock is ticking, bitch. No one fucks with Ass Slapper! All I saw was a haunted house, a fudge store...and the little shit that taunted me earlier. His mom was with him...I hadn't forgotten...the second she let go of his had, turned her back, I'd be there, weapon in hand. Nothing like a knife, or a gun...it has to be something heavy, awkward to wield, the sheer force of impact of which would decapitate him and cave in his chest - a cast iron skillet, or a coffee table. Who's laughing now, junior? Patience, Ass Slapper, patience... It was at that moment that my fiancee squealed with glee, shattering the monotonous din of my own murderous thoughts. It took a moment for me to see the object of her elation, but when I did...oh, joy! Sweet rapture! Why it was hiding at the foot of Clifton Hill is anyone's guess...perhaps its glow was too bright for the evils of the mainstream...perhaps it was because angel's aren't expected to fly so low...whatever it was, a rose by any other name...1400 square feet...five doors...wall to wall Hershey. We're talking candy bars, Kisses, milkshakes, gourmet treats...it was magnificent! Hershey bars the size of 2x4 planks for $3, pillowcases of Kisses for $5 - nothing could have dimmed my senses at that moment.  At that moment, I was his bitch. I would have sucked his cock and called it a popsicle. He had me...and he knew it. I had achieved nirvana, complete and utter balance with the universe around me. I stood in line to purchase those tasty treats, the little lady parked greedily at the free sample area. Memories of Dinosaurs and smart-assed children with death sentences slipped from my thoughts...for one fleeting moment, I was living a dream. An old woman in front of me continuously reamed off tales of her stay at Casino Niagara...I think she was flirting with me. I imagined how funny it would be if I bludgeoned her about the face with my fat, sweaty cock, and chuckled heartily. For no reason, my thoughts the went to a Christmas long ago, when I received the NES Advantage joystick for Christmas, along with the game Karnov. I chuckled again. Karnov rocked.  That zany Russian was the best. Bionic Commando can fist my ass while it sucks my dick. So there. It was time to leave. We both knew it. Golf and chocolate just weren't enough to endear the place to us, and we began the journey to our car, and the salvation that would most undoubtedly ensue. Strolling by Planet Hollywood, we watched a young lady throw up next to the Bonnie and Clyde car, one stabilizing hand on the door, her friend holding a juice bottle and glancing at the puke-ee with a fiery disdain that I was forced to appreciate. Amidst the sounds of peas and bile hitting the pavement, I saw the unimaginable sitting dormant atop a cropping of rocks. It was Superglo, the car from Days of Thunder. I posed next to it, for a fleeting moment feeling like Cole Trickle. Sufficed to say, the thrill slipped away relatively quickly.  My Tercel is still better. We found our way back to our chariot, and I let out an exasperated "fuck!" as I saw the thick, meaty line of traffic sludge its way along the only road out of town. I fished the keys out of my pocket, eager to leave, as I looked around at the other lost souls in the parking lot. I could have sworn Ahmed winked at me - I'm still waiting for his phone call. The drive home was much easier - we knew salvation awaited us, as the towns passed by with little fanfare. Having experienced the Falls first hand, I can, in retrospect, say that I am truly glad to have danced through the fire. I tackled the carnival, waded through the shit games and exhibits, and left feeling unbelievably filthy and diseased. But the mini-golf...the Hershey store...at least I got to see the donkey show. The trip wasn't a complete waste, after all. |
