'Twas all about the spawnjamins this weekend. We hauled our asses over to the "Country Mill" in Charlotte for a pumpkin-gettin', cider-swillin', apple-pickin' good time. We used to go to a place called "Uncle Jon's," but last time we passed it, we noticed a shitload of Dick DeVos signs out front and we decided we just can't cotton to supporting that Amway douchebag, even indirectly through over-priced apple juice and greezy donuts.
So we drove all the way out to farmblefuck and instantly knew we had chosen the perfect place, as we looked to the crisp blue skies above the Country Mill and saw the traditional autumn helicopter rides:
You know when the helicopters are a-flyin' that Indian corn and pumpkin pie are right around the corner. Or should that be Native American corn? Indigenous peoples' corn? Wait... maize?
So, we get there and Mr. Z starts a-pesterin' me about going into the Haunted Cider Mill. Now, this is the kid whose hair practically turned white when he saw two bugs mating on the window up in Traverse City, so he'd probably pull a "Scanners" head 'splosion if he saw something really scary. But he kept bugging me about it and saying "No, really, I totally want to go! Please! I won't be scared! PLEEEAAASSSE!!!!!"
And, just as I went ahead and painted the brick on the house when I knew damn well that is was a fucking big-ass mistake, I ignored the "not recommended for children under 10" sign and paid the 14 bucks for the two of us to go get the shit scared out of us.
The minute we stepped through the fucking door, the boy clamped a death grip around my waist/neck and didn't let go for the next horrifyingly painful 15 minutes. It was pitch-fucking-black in there and I had to feel around to find our way through it. It was like wall... wall... cobwebs... wall... someone's flannel shirt... AAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!! Mr. Z was fucking PETRIFIED -- screaming, crying, begging to get the fuck out of there, and all we could do was continue through the blackness. I'm pretty sure there was only one dude who would scare the shit out of us, then run ahead to the next door, switch masks, and then scare the fuck out of us again. After about the 10th scare, I kinda called out to the darkness, "Um... there's a REALLY terrified nine-year-old in here and so, uh, if any of you ghoulies want to take a break for the rest of our trip through your oh-so-spooky house, you go right ahead! [pause] Seriously." After about three more scares, the asshole finally figured out my subtle hint and we made it through the last few minutes BOO-free.
Oh, and Mr. Z's hair turned white.
We met up with the Old Lady and Miss O, both of them chomping merrily away on some donuts and suckin' down some cider. After about 10 minutes, Mr. Z finally loosened his steel grip on my arm, and we walked through the corn maze, which technically isn't really a maze if I'm able to see over the top of the corn and figure out the right path, we picked out a few punkins and then, as we were walking back from the punkin patch, Miss O started whining that her stomach hurt. We figured that she just had a cramp from walking, since she and Mr. Z are "indoor kids" and never really get any fucking exercise. But she kept whining and then started crying and that's when we realized that the oily donuts and the almost-turned cider were causing a chemical 'rrhea-action in her puny colon and she was about to have an ass-plosion. The Old Lady ran her to the crapper and, sure enough, Mt. Crack-a-toa let loose, and the cider was no longer in-cider.
After that, we quickly dragged Mr. Z, who was still catatonic from the fright-fest, and the now completely voided and pale Miss O back to the car, so we could get the fuck out of there with our lives intact. But not before the nice folks at the Country Mill fired one last parting shot our way in the form of the Headless Horseman who came galloping up behind us:
Guess they could tell Mr. Z still had one heart ventricle left that hadn't completely seized up and they wanted to make it four for four.
No wonder the spawnage are indoor kids. Outside fucking sucks.