For real Rent a Cop?

Went to Orlando last night to meet up with some friends we haven't seen in almost two years. They were staying at one of the value resorts at Disney, which Husband and I had not been to previously. While our friends were braving the free Disney transportation from the Magic Kingdom (which after a long, hot day at the parks can safely be called either "The BO Bus" or "The Stink Mobile") we wandered the hotel, taking in the sites.

We have stayed repeatedly at Disney resorts, but only the higher end "moderate" and "deluxe" accommodations. This was our first glimpse of how the common people live. (Note to readers, the last two sentences were completely facetious. Welcome to my humor. And no more side notes explaining said humor, as they take us away from the point at hand.) That being said, we've never had the urge to stay at these hotels, call us stubborn, but they are nothing more than a tacky Days Inn. If the 30 foot cowboy boots weren't to your liking, please take note of the giant banjos and fiddles that loom menacingly above you, threatening to end your life with the pluck of a string.

We walked around the hotel grounds as we waiting for our friends to ride the Disney bus of eternal stench to meet us, and were met with the shrieks and screams of the most terrifying creature known to tourists: the cheerleader. We had stumbled upon the nesting grounds of these obnoxious beasts and feared for our very eardrums. It was close to sundown and they were still practicing whatever it is they do, clapping and flying through the air with the greatest of ease.

We begrudgingly sat by the pool to wait for our friends, only to be joined by a group of buff young men, probably high school aged. Yes, the male cheerleaders had arrived.

They were attired in what I can only describe as boxer brief swim bottoms, without the little peaky hole for easier access during urination.* Husband wears the boxer briefs....under his clothing. These were skin tight and had I not been sitting near Husband, I may have stared a bit longer. (Clearly I did, as I did notice the lack of peaky hole) Also among the male cheerleaders, was a boy in a pair of white swim trunks and soon after his first dip in the pool, it became clear that he did not find the need to wear any underthings. It became very, very clear.

Normally, I am all about seeing some peen, but I felt incredibly old (class of 1999, in the hizzy) and slightly pervy for even looking for one second, but then I noticed the children at the other end of the pool, eyes curious and, in some cases, bulging. There was a lot of that going around. Bulging that is.

You see, good ole' white trunks and his male cheerleader pals were involved in a furious game of....well, grab the Nerf football (and that is totally not code for anything else) and swim from one side of the pool to the other. There were makeshift teams, which I could not decipher as they were all "skins" to me. It seemed more like an excuse to rub up against half naked guys, and this thought had me eager to shed my clothes and jump on in, but a glance at Husband and I thought better of it.

There was one girl involved, but clearly her team had no faith in her abilities. Although she was floating, unblocked, in front of the "goal", they ignored her cries for attention and threw to other members of the team. The cute little girl in a skimpy bikini got little attention in this man pile.

While we were watching this, we sat discussing the male cheerleaders nationality.

You see, not only did I have to endure the torture that is cheer leading (and really no offense to cheerleaders, it's just so much funnier if you think I detest them), but I had to listen to the cheers in roughly 15 different languages.

Husband and I listened closely between the screams of the children around us to hear the language the male cheerleaders were using. My knowledge of language extends to being able to tell you what language a group is NOT speaking. I know, it's a gift. My rudimentary grasp on English aside, I have a very very basic ear for Spanish (duh, I live in Florida), German (I was taught how to say "May I sharpen my pencil?" in the language, and used it proudly until my parents German friend told me he had never heard ANY German dialect such as mine.), and maybe a tiny pinch of Mandarin Chinese (and for really dorky purposes, which I keep a secret for now)

I could say with some certainty that these kids were none of the above. Woo! Three down, thousands more to go!

I listened intently although it was difficult from all the splashing and yelling, and one particularly fat teenage boy at the other end of the pool, who kept telling his friend that was out of the water "It's MAAAAAD warm yo." Ok, maybe I added the yo, but the rest is true. I think he said it five to seven times and it was obnoxious. I couldn't understand why he assumed his friend heard him the first time, as the friend responded in kind to him. But he repeated it again. And again. Perhaps he loves to hear his own voice. Perhaps it was code for, "I am currently filling the pool with my urine, do not come near." Maybe I just wanted to punch him in the face. I'm leaning toward the latter.

After tuning "MAAAD fat" out, I was able to hear more than just a few syllables from the foreign male cheerleaders.

After using my powers of deduction and running through all the stereotypical foreign accents in my head (The Swedish "Yaaaa" playing over and over, with visions of pigtail milkmaids. Or Drew Barrymore from Charlies Angels...shame.), I announced to Husband that I thought them to be of Scandinavian decent. As though that means something to me. Or Husband. Or anyone other than Alex Trebek.

When I was certain that I had nailed it, case closed, the noise died down, and their Nerf football came became less energized. Then I could finally hear a few full sentences and the true language became clear.

I turned to Husband, "Imagine we are at *local pizza place*. That's what I hear."

Yep, I deduced where these young kids were from by thinking of food. I am so talented, it scares me sometimes.

As the sun started to go down, the bugs started to come out. It was impossible to stand still if you intended to remained unblemished from their constant biting. We chose to walk around. First we walked back to our friends building, passing the giant banjos of death and coming dangerously close to the 30 foot cowboy boots that guarded the entrance to the portico holding the elevators. As we passed the boots, a teenage girl and her mother were walking up an adjoining path towards us.

"I like the big boobs," the teen said to her mother.

At least, that's what I heard. I had somehow forgotten about the existence of the boots that we stood in the shadow of, and glanced down at my own chest. I nodded my head silently in appreciation at the rack I was graced with and thought silently, "well thank you!" Then I was forced back to reality as we passed under the raised heal of the right boot and realized the mistake.

"Oh, boot!" I realized out loud, confusing Husband. Then I gave my girls a reassuring nod and continued on my way to the elevator.

When our friends called and said they were just leaving the park, we estimated they had 30 minutes until they got back to their room. Husband and I decided to wander the premises, as this was likely the last visit to this resort.

We walked past the pool we had sat by earlier, noting that the Italians had vacated the pool, leaving it rather empty. It was close to 9pm and I hoped that cheerleaders had curfews. It didn't seem that was the case though, as we passed many other international teams practicing, back flipping, twirling in the air in ways that were not intended for the human body. This thought was reinforced when a group of five girls hobbled towards us, dressed in their cheering outfit (uniform?) and each supported by crutches.

"See," Husband noted, "cheer leading is a dangerous sport."

I imagined the gimpy cheerleaders joining their healthy counterparts, heads hanging in shame from letting the team down. Then I imagined the healthy cheerleaders forcing their gimpy teammates from the "inner circle", their inner sanctum**, a 400 square foot hotel room filled with spandex and sparkles, banning the temporarily crippled from associating with any healthy cheerleader until they could be strong enough to compete. And in my imagination, there is hissing and claws and demonic possession. At least that's how I imagined it.

It explains why the hobbling cheerleaders were alone in their shame. Unless they were permanently crippled, beating the odds, like the Special Olympic team representing. But that makes my previous thought implausible. And we can't have that. Exiled cheerleaders indeed.


We continue our lap through the buildings, each section with a different theme, with bright colors and sparkly lights. It was a epileptics nightmare. And a pedophiles dream.

Children ran amok, screaming, yelling, and obviously on vacation. Loud music pumped out of speakers, keeping with each themed building. We arrived at a larger, even busier pool. People were practically shoulder to shoulder in the water and I couldn't see the appeal.

I don't have any numbers to back up my suspicions, but I expect that someone in that packed pool was leaving some yellow clouds behind them. There is not enough chlorine in the world for me to swim in someone else's pee. Give me a couple a beers and stick me in the pool, I might lavish in my own urine, but someone else's, no way. Although, there is a trick to not creating a yellow force field around yourself, which includes short spurts and slow, continuous movement. Or just give enough beers and everything comes out clear. Or so I've heard.

At the end of the pool, where the throbbing*** music grew in decibel stood a large inflatable projection screen and the almighty Wii Fit Skiing being played. They erected the air filled screen in the walkway, so it was difficult to pass by. We decided to forgo the return path by the pool and walked closer to the building to stay away from the crowd.

As we walked, we again looked at the decor of the hotel and found something rather...disturbing. I'm ashamed to say I didn't take a picture of it, as you would have to see it to believe it.

The railings on the second floor of the building look like sheet music. They have the bars and the clefs and the music notes. Snuggled within the innocuous music are squiggles. They have no discernable shape, as all of them look different, and no purpose that I can determine. Granted, I'm no virtuoso, but I did play some instruments as a kid, and I'm pretty good at deciphering sheet music if you give me a few minutes.

These blobs continued down the whole side of the building, roughly 50 yards. Each had it's own unique shape and size, most starting with a larger rounded top and tapering down to what I could only describe as a tail. Perched on the bulbous "head" portion of the creature is a large black dot, an eerie eye, making the creature even more unusual.

To me, they looked like a puddle of jizz with an eyeball.

I expressed as much to Husband. He readily agreed.

I am going to begin marketing myself to companies for my special talents. This uncanny ability to find the perverted where it is not obvious. I'd be on the payroll and they could run their plans, designs, slogans, or anything really, by me, and I will provide them with possible lawsuits, future Christian outrages, possible company embarrassments. I think I'd be keen at it.

This creature would be first on my list.


It was when we were just past the first pool, where we watched the Italians conquer American aquatics, when we smelled it.

That familiar sweet, piney, sometimes skunky aroma that I have only smelled in passing for the past few years.

As a former pot smoker and child of (former occasional) pot smoking parents, I know that smell like my own armpit after a hot day and forgotten deodorant. (Not that they compare of course, just familiar, and taunting)

The moment after I smelled the weed, I saw the security guard. He must have been 15 months pregnant and he swung his belly around with the pride that screams "well past my prime, rejected police academy applicant". As though his badge means anything to me. Especially with Mickey Mouse front and center, it really screams "authority". And soon we would have proof of his incompetence.

I started sniffing the air loudly and commenting on the obvious.

"Wow, that smells like fun." catching me a sour look from Security. The guard was on his walkie talkie, informing the other worthless guards of his position.

As we walked forward towards the boots, we glanced to our left to the open clearing with picnic tables. In the middle of the dimly lit "pasture", as it was designed to represent, we first saw the glowing ember of smoking object. We continued to watch as the smoking object was raised to the persons mouth, the ember flamed and brightened with the suction from the other end, and not so surprisingly, no smoke was emitted from the lungs of said smoker.

Upon further inspection, we noted that smoking man was clothed in tie dye and bell bottomish attire, with long hair and a long scraggly beard. This man was perpetuating every pot smoker stereotype and it looked like it felt pretty good.

And there he was, hiding in plain site, Security only 100 yards away and hot on his trail.

Or not.

We took the elevator up one floor, expecting friends any moment. When we saw they weren't in their room, Husband suggested we go watch the pothead and Security collide.

Only a few seconds later, our friends showed up and we did our greetings. Before we even entered their hotel room, they brought up Mr. Pot Smoker.

Our friends have a 4 month old baby and they were jokingly worried that she would get a contact high from the smell.

After relaying our experience, they explained that the Security Guards had doubled, like feeding Gremlins after midnight, and they were still completely inept.

After our friend commented to the guards that they should find the culprit, Security advised that they were working on it.

It must have been a covert operation, because Security maintained their position. Perhaps they were just enjoying the buzz.

Our friends walked forward about 10 paces, noted the direction of the wind, and discovered the squinty eyed pot smoking fiend. (Note, not that the guy was Asian, but that he was stoned. That sounded bad.) Yet the guards stayed their ground. Serve and ignore?

I can't say I expect any more out of Disney Security. Hell, I make much more than they do an hour and I don't feel like doing my job half the time.


* I suppose now is the time to admit my extreme penis envy. I long to urinate anywhere I please.

**Point of interest, I looked up sanctum to verify I had the definition correct (see: bad grammar and language skills) and even though I did, I found it interesting that sanctum is also a crust punk band from Seattle. I'm still not sure what the hey crust punk is though.

***So it was Disney, kid friendly fare, but I just like the word throbbing. Although throbbing reminds me of such classics as "Oh, Me So Horney" or "I'm Horney All Night Long"