Eventually, the Divine Miss Tiffany was
safely transferred to the landing platform, without any actual mid-air
copulation that we could see, but since that’s such a delicious phrase and
possibility to work into the opening paragraph of a blog post, I simply had to
go there. In any case, once the public-transport clothesline had been cleared
of debris, human and otherwise, the rest of us who had been trapped on the Ewok
tree were free to fling ourselves into space and allow the laws of physics to
do whatever they must to keep us alive.
Rest assured that none of us let our gloved
hands get anywhere near mechanisms of any kind. It’s fun and interesting when
tragedy strikes other people. Not so much when it happens to you.
And for most of the rest of our zipping
extravaganza in the jungle, things went quite swimmingly. There were a few
tense moments when folks didn’t quite make it to the other end at some of the
zip lines, but by now we all realized that it was probably a wiser move to just
haul your ass to the platform rather than wait for one of the guides to throw
his legs around you. After all, we had no idea where those legs had been. No
one wants to get an STD in a foreign country where you don’t know the locations
of free clinics. This is something that is not adequately covered in travel
brochures.
But then it was time for the final zip. We
traipsed up to that last launch platform with two mindsets. There were those
among us who hadn’t had a particularly festive afternoon, and they were simply
waiting for the pain, agony, and lack of cocktails to come to a miserable end.
(Picture Tiffany, with her mangled glove and the slight abrasions around her
waistline. She would never look fondly upon goats again.) Then we had folks who
were quite saddened that our adventure was reaching the part where Carol
Burnett would tug at her ear. (Picture Terry, who had greatly enjoyed the
excursion, wiping away a tear as we approached final lift-off.)
Personally, I’d have to include myself in the
enraptured group. After the first run, where I didn’t die and actually became
slightly horny during the zip (don’t ask, just go with it), I’d had a rather
swell time. But something seemed a little odd as we collectively gathered and
sweated at the last station. For one, you couldn’t really see the destination.
Granted, we had survived a few runs where the landing platform was a bit
distant and vague, but you still got a sense of the general in which you would
be flung.
This time? Not so much. The zip line simply
vanished into mere sunshine and nothingness. We couldn’t see anything remotely
resembling a place where one would wish to go, harnessed or otherwise.
But I was still adequately doped up on
whatever body chemicals were coursing through my body after the morning’s
physicality (after all, the only exercise I normally get consists of reaching
for the TV remote control or hitting “enter” on a keyboard), so I really didn’t
worry about things as I was once again hitched to the clothesline. Then I
happened to glance at two of the lesser guides who were huddled off to the
side, apparently exchanging money. What was that all about? Was it a drug deal,
or were they betting on survival chances? That made me a little uneasy. Maybe I
had better ask someone about-
“GO!” screamed the main guide standing right
beside me, a gruff invective that both startled and aroused me. I instinctively
ran to the end of the platform like the po-po were banging on the front door
and dove head-first into nothingness.
And things were fine for roughly four
seconds, with pretty greenery whipping by on both sides and a brisk wind
cooling off my heated bits. Then I shot out of the trees and found myself in an
open-air expanse that people typically only encounter when they drive up to the
rim of the Grand Canyon. Except that I was way
past that rim. And the other side of the canyon appeared to be in another
country, like Ecuador or Australia.
So I screamed. Okay, maybe not screamed, but
a crude expletive that normally references solid body waste fought its way out
of my mouth and echoed up and down the canyon that was ungodly large and
obviously a place where people died. This was clearly a moment that wise
advertising personnel had left out of the glossy brochures.
But I managed to stop with the masculine
screaming, somewhere over Colorado, and I got a second wind. As it became
evident that I was not going to immediately perish, as long as I didn’t stick
my fingers where they shouldn’t be, I actually relaxed enough to enjoy the
view. Because really, it was quite magnificent. After all, how often do you get
the chance to see things from the perspective of a flying creature that
normally just poops on your car?
Then I started spinning.
I really didn’t welcome this development. I
vaguely recalled that one of the guides, when he wasn’t flirting with all the
women-folk in our entourage, had mentioned that spinning was a possibility. And
that there were certain measures you could take to stop the spinning if you
didn’t find it particularly enjoyable. But I really couldn’t remember what he
proffered up as preventative actions, because at the time of his oratory I was
more concerned with the fact that my flight gear was separating my testicles in
a manner that was neither pleasant nor productive.
So I
continued to twirl. Normally this is something that my people enjoy, preferably
with an abundance of glitter and a Lady Gaga song playing in the background.
But at this particular moment I was not a fan of the twirling. Revoke my gay
card if the by-laws of our constitution say you must. Everything was blurry and
I couldn’t figure out where I was, and I really didn’t care for feeling like
Courtney Love on a typical Saturday night.
Then, by whatever happenstance and alignment
of the planets, I stopped spinning. Right as I was approaching the very end of
the run. This was a quick bit of business, and I only had about three seconds
to assess the situation. I could see several friends and family members
clustered near the landing platform, most of them cheering me on in that “Go
Team!” way that non-athletes have when it comes to encouraging people do sporty
things while watching TV in a bar during happy hour. This was sweet and all,
but I couldn’t help but notice that I was rapidly heading toward a tree.
A tree with what appeared to be a mattress
strapped to its trunk.
Despite my recent spinning and screaming, I
was fairly certain that a tree should not come equipped with a mattress, unless
there was some type of pain-avoidance scenario that owners of jungle-based
entertainment venues wished to avoid. I was only able to process about three
words in my brain (“why is there-“) before I slammed into the evil tree with
enough power to make the slamming of Hurricane Katrina into New Orleans look
like a hiccup.
My sunglasses flew in one direction, my
already-abused testicles flew in another direction, and several internal organs
flew to parts of my body that hadn’t received the memo about the new arrivals
and proper accommodations had not been prepared. I slid down the tree and hung
from the zip line like a piñata after children hopped up on birthday-cake sugar
had beaten me with sticks. I fully expected emergency personnel to arrive
within seconds and begin performing life-saving activity.
This did not immediately happen.
In fact, no one around me seemed all that
interested in the possibility that I might never walk again. The only person who
even glanced my way was one of the little lesser-guides who reached up and
whacked at the pulley device above me so that I could drop to the platform with
an unsatisfying thud. (And that was his job,
so I’m not really going to give him any bonus points for merely following
protocol.)
I plucked my sunglasses out of a nearby bush
and staggered my way to a little ladder leading down from the platform, where I
then managed to further desecrate my athleticism by not remembering how one
navigates a ladder. I made it to the first rung with amazing skill and
expertise, but then things got a bit jacked-up and I barely even touched the
remaining rungs, hurtling downward in a manner that would have delighted those
soul-deprived people who watch amateur videos and laugh hysterically at
strangers who do stupid things that result in pain and disability checks.
And still, no one was paying any attention to
the fact that I was not having a good time right at the moment. There just
might have to be some harsh words exchanged with my supposed friends and family
members, once the bodily pain diminished enough that I could form coherent
sentences.
Eventually, I clamored back to my feet,
brushing off the exotic Jamaican soil that was now in every crevice of my body,
and turned toward said batch of former loved ones as they stood in a circle off
to one side. I opened my mouth to say something essentially pointless but still
cutting enough to be emotionally satisfying, then I quickly closed my offended
mouth as I studied their behavior. They all seemed to be greatly focused on
something in the midst of their circle, with all of them making cooing noises
of delight and a few of them possibly approaching orgasm.
Well, this
I had to see.
I walked up to the circle and shoved a few of
the worshippers to the side (look, if you can’t rush to soothe me when I’ve
slammed into a tree, you really don’t have a special place in my heart), thus
allowing me to cast my eyes upon the idolatrous wonder that had enraptured
them.
It was
one of those one of those big-ass water coolers that you normally see on the
tailgate of a government-owned truck parked by the side of a construction area
on a highway, in one of those scenarios where hundreds of government-owned
workers are standing around and doing absolutely nothing while you are trapped
in your car for hours, log-jammed because the 6-lane highway has been reduced
to 1 stupid lane. Why are those fools
thirsty? The only person who is actually doing anything is the flag-waver person,
and his bitter expression makes it very clear that he doesn’t care where you drive as long as it’s not
toward him.
The acolytes at this particular jungle-based
water cooler were shoving little paper cups at the dispenser spigot and sucking
down the gushing liquid as if there had never been anything more glorious in
the history of the planet, even surpassing the invention of fried cheese.
And suddenly, I realized that I was more thirsty
than any human being should have to endure. I hadn’t really thought about my
parched state during the entire trek through the tropical forests of Jamaica,
mainly because I was more concerned about staying alive and such, but now that
the lovely combination of hydrogen and oxygen was there for my taking from a
slightly-dirty round vessel composed of plastic that won’t decompose in a
landfill for 2 billion years, there was nothing I wanted more.
I grabbed a flimsy paper cup (at least the cup could be recycled, karma points for
me) and shoved it under the spigot, knocking aside the hand of someone who was
also reaching. (Screw you. You’ve been here longer than me, and if you haven’t
managed to get what you need with that kind of head start, then you have
personal issues that you really need to work through.) I filled my cup,
purposely spilling a bit just to irritate those who were waiting, and gulped
down the entire contents in one epic example of gluttony.
Oh. My. God.
I may have possibly spent my seed on the
ground without impregnating anybody, an obvious affront to the seed-maintenance
directives listed in the Bible, but that was the best water that I have ever
tasted. Ever. I could smell colors and touch sounds.
“Incoming!” screamed one of the acolytes. Or
one of the guides. Somebody hollered.
What? I’m having a religious experience here,
why must there be shouting?
Then I heard a whizzing and looked up.
Another member of our amateur flock was hurtling along the zip line toward the
mattress tree. It happened so fast that I really couldn’t see who it was, but
they were very un-original in their execution, as they basically copied my own
routine, slamming into the tree with mind-numbing force. There might have even
been blood spatter, but I’ll leave that decision up to the fine folks at CSI: Jamaica.
I turned back to the sacred font of obviously
drug-laced liquid, and proceeded to gluttonize further. No shame in my game.
Eventually, the newer arrivals shoved my belching ass to the side, intent on
their own vision quest, but it really didn’t matter. I was sated at that point,
and the only additional thing I might need in my life plan at that point was
the appearance of a serving-wench type person bearing a plate of
grease-dripping nachos and an alcoholic beverage.
But then one of the guides got our attention
by assuming an authoritative pose, which basically involved him standing in a
strikingly-flattering shaft of sunlight filtering through the lush leafy
coverage over our heads, and then chastely rubbing in the general area of his
crotch. (Those Jamaican men sure do love their appendages.) “We will now march
back to camp!”
March back to camp? I don’t think so. At a
hundred bucks a pop (U.S. dollars!) for this excursion, my water-logged butt
wasn’t marching anywhere. I turned to glare at him defiantly.
He couldn’t have cared less. “Follow me to
the camp!” he announced, with one final diddle on his digit. Then he whirled
about and attempted to commence said march, with the firm conviction of
Napoleon strutting his short-ass self into a certain place known as Waterloo.
I gave the knowing eye to all of my
compatriots, full of the Norma Rae spirit, firmly convinced that they would join
me in rising up against our oppressors.
Instead, they all completely ignored me and
raced to fall in line behind the stoned Pied Piper who was now in charge of our
lives.
Great.
To Be Continued…
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