The roller coaster in Montreal was plainly cobbled together from demolished lake-house decks and railroad ties. So although I waited for a half-hour in line with my comedian friends, I felt perfectly justified in stepping into the car, considering my options, and then stepping right on out the other side.Read the whole thing, it gets better.
Oh, how they mocked. But my momentary cowardice still allowed me to retain a shred of dignity, and so was worth indulging. Because if I'd gotten on that ride, my friends would have actually heard me scream. Like a little girl. Like a little girl who just woke up because somebody licked her foot. Like a little girl who just woke up because somebody licked her foot, and then when she turns on the light there's an evil clown sitting in the middle of her bedroom, eating her pony.
There's no comeback from the clown-pony scream . . .
And don't miss the comments -- more stories to be read with the lights on. Because, as James Wolcott says, we all owe it to our friends to find some new stories:
. . . it's also imperative that I pay attention to what others say because, to be frank, I'm running dangerously short of personal, dispensable anecdotes. The winsome, self-mocking, namedroppy anecdotes that stood me in good stead for so many years have acquired so many age spots and faded hues that I can't bring myself to haul them out of the potato sack one more time.
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