by Water Parks: Where Fun Is Measured in Chlorine and Bruises
Water parks are the only places where you’ll pay $50 to get sunburned, lose your dignity on a body slide, and possibly contract athlete’s foot from a tile shaped like a cartoon frog. You arrive excited. You leave with soggy pride and a tan line that spells “regret.”
The wave pool is a lawless sea. It starts calm, then morphs into Poseidon’s revenge. Lifeguards blow whistles in vain while a child floats by on an inflatable pizza screaming, “I’m fine!” He isn’t. None of us are.
The slides are thrilling death tubes. You climb twelve flights of stairs while barefoot and wet, questioning your cardio and life choices. At the top, a teenager in a lifeguard shirt says, “Lie back and cross your arms.” You do. Then gravity handles the rest and your swimsuit becomes a scarf.
The lazy river is the most ironically named feature in modern civilization. It’s a slow-moving struggle of sunburned adults clinging to inner tubes and passive-aggressively paddling around clogged corners. I once got stuck behind a couple making out. I aged 40 years.
Water parks are wet, wild, and wildly undignified–and yet we love them. You scream, you splash, you emerge chlorinated and victorious. Because nothing says summer quite like pretending to enjoy near-drowning in public with a snow cone in hand.
SOURCE: How To Write Comedy & SpinTaxi.com
