SO WHERE THE HELL IS THAT BIG GOOFY MOUSE?

In celebrating our 11th anniversary a few years back, the Mrs. and I took an impromptu trip to Universal Studios in Orlando. Or ... as it's known by people that have been there ... "Pay A Couple Hundred Dollars To Come Stand In Line And Sweat Your Genitals Off-Land"

If you have never been to Universal Studios, it's a lot like feeding your dog peanut butter. The whole thing is pretty fun the first time, but if you do it twice you've GOTTA be fuckin' deranged.

Our "fun-filled stay" at Universal started in the parking garage. The parking garage is, by my estimation, 37 miles from the park itself. There are a few escalators and moving sidewalks, which are jammed with homeless families who can't afford the admission prices into the actual park so they ride those back and forth until the little homeless kids tire out and then they hitchhike back to wherever their bridge may be. So you can forget about using the moving sidewalks, soldier, your pansy ass is going HIKING.

We finally arrived at the ticket window after numerous bathroom breaks and a presidential election. At this point, we got in the Neverending Line(TM) at Universal. One thing that isn't in their fancy little brochures ... once you park your car at Universal, you then wait in line for EVERYFUCKINGTHING. Fifteen minutes later, I'm sweating like Andrea Yates in a Kindercare as we finally get to the front of the line. My wife hands the dumpy, plain young woman behind the window her credit card and then signs the card voucher.

The young lady behind the window, looked at the voucher, looked at the credit card and then said "These signatures don't match. I need to see some I.D."

My wife had left her purse in the car, which was 48 miles behind us. The only thing she had brought with her was her credit card which I was carrying.

"My I.D. is in my purse in the car," my wife started to explain.

"I need to see some I.D. before I can accept your credit card," the bitchy-assed virgin wallflower behind the window said.

At this point, I figured that I was as good as any person to vouch for my wife in Orlando, Florida, so I stepped into the situation. "This is my wife," I said, pointing at Susie and speaking as if I were trying to communicate with a near-deaf Russian while using broad hand gestures. "The signatures probably don't match because she's trembling from dehydration right now since we've been walking several miles in the sweltering heat to get here."

"Sir, I have to see HER I.D., the card is in her name," she injected. The entire line behind us groaned. It took everything I had to keep from throttling this little fuzzy rectumed psycho bitch, but something tells me Universal Studios frowns on guests that open economy-sized cans of whoop ass on their little 16 year-old bitch ass employees.

Usually I'm not the type of person to curse in public. I usually respect those around me, especially children, and try to refrain from any outbursts that would make my mother cringe.

But I had just walked 161 miles from a parking garage in sole-blistering heat and stood in the first 15 minute line of the day to be told I had to walk back those 283 miles and get my wife's drivers license so this four-eyed little cretin who had to squint as if she were staring at an eclipse to even SEE the signature, could feel confident enough to let us into her precious park. Plus she had a snippy little attitude to boot which was really starting to rub me the wrong way.

So I called her an "unholy Jihad fucknugget". I tried to get her to understand that the reason she was such a bitch ass was because she was never EVER going to get her hairy ass laid. I then slipped her a beauty tip...shoot herself. Preferably in the face.

I even said "I hope you fall and break your liver, you little four-eyed beast from Hell." And that was to some homeless kid on the escalator that I shoved out of the way as I bounded up the stairs past him. His parents ran to his side to make sure his hitchiking thumb was still okay, and then they huddled together at the side of the road and began their long journey home to their cozy overpass.

We retrieved Susie's I.D., went back in line and got into the park with no further problems when my wife brought up an interesting scenario.

"Why didn't we just get in another line and try it again with some other employee who wasn't on the rag?" she asked me.

I stared at her, silently marveling in her genius yet wanting to slap the holy hell out of her for having an incredibly slow thinking process at times.

Once inside Universal Studios, it doesn't take long to see the general lack of enthusiasm on anyone's faces while waiting in line. Then again ... you're standing in 90 degree heat in early August, surrounded by a couple of thousand people, each of whom has their own personal sweaty stench. And you have another HOUR of this shit before you're quickly whisked into an air conditioned building, thrashed around like a pitbull's chew toy for two minutes and then tossed back into the heat like a puppy who just pissed all over the new carpet.

It wasn't exactly what I had envisioned it to be, but I was afraid if I complained they'd send the bitch ass at the ticket window after me to compare my complaints and tell me they didn't fucking match.

Susie and I soon found out that we had visited Universal on "Tattoo Day." I'm not completely up to snuff on all the rules and regulations of the promotion, but it looked to me like for every tattoo you had on your body, you received a dollar off of the $42 admission price.

And according to my estimation, there were about 30,000 guests who got in absolutely free that day ... PLUS earned rebates.

There was one woman in particular walking around in a bikini who looked as if she had gone AWOL from a freak show. I seriously thought she was part of the Universal Studios entertainment and tried to get my photo taken with her but she kicked me in the groin and walked away before the wife could snap the shot.

That's when it dawned on me that she was probably not an employee. The multi-pierced nipples shoulda been a dead giveaway.

I don't have a tattoo and neither does my wife. And you bet your sweet ass we were giggled at and pointed at all day long because of our virgin pink skin. Now I finally know how that Elephant Guy must have felt. We were freaks.

Other than that, I enjoyed the park immensely. Granted ... I have a few suggestions. The ride known as "Back To The Future" would be less deceptive if they just called it "Back to the Chiropractor." Granted, there's a list outside the attraction warning people with back pains, neck aches, motion sickness, claustrophobia and more to not ride the ride. Out of eight different restrictions, I suffered from six. The only two that I didn't qualify for were being pregnant and Amish.

So if you're in the Orlando area, give Universal a try. Three simple rules: Drink plenty of water, wear light clothing, and whatever you do DON'T forget to dot your "i"s on the credit card voucher for that bitch ass whore at the ticket window up front.