A Perfectly Cromulent Blog

My horrible traumatic ordeal and subsequent courageous decision to share it with the world

NOTE: APCB will be on hiatus while the author recovers from Portnoy's complaint. We hope to have him back some time next week. In the meantime, please enjoy this tale of mirth and woe.

Much has been made of this item about a Macon, GA woman threatening a teeange girl dressed as Chuck E. Cheese with a beating for not paying enough attention to her child:

Macon police reported that the 17-year-old female employee was dressed as the character — a gray cartoon-like rodent with large front teeth — when a 31-year-old Macon woman threw a piece of pizza at her Sunday afternoon.

The report stated that the mother then threatened to "whip" the girl when she changed out of costume.

The life of a corporate mascot is far from glamorous. During one of the many career valleys in my life, I myself was forced to wear a Coors Light BeerWolf costume - in Texas during the month of August - and stand on the side of the road so budding Seinfelds could pelt me with cigarette butts and (sometimes) empty cans. It takes a special person - one with few employment options, little to no self esteem, and a trauma victim's ability to physically detach from their surroundings - to don the full body suit with matching oversized head and not lapse into catatonic depression (provided you're not into that sort of thing in the first place, that is).

But we who sport the costumes of the damned aren't all saints in (heh) wolf's clothing, nor are we necessarily blameless. Those face-concealing masks afford opportunities to stare brazenly at that which would've (rightly) earned you a slap in the face were you not otherwise equipped. And while chafing is always a concern, there's certainly no Golden Rule that states you have to wear actual clothes beneath your suit.

I was never one to pay much attention during orientation sessions.

My peccadilloes aside, I have firsthand knowledge of the depths to which mascot behavior can sink. For not only has that abyss gazed into me, but it demolished a significant portion of my remaining youthful idealism and further assaulted my already shaky faith in certain institutions. All thanks to one insolent action in the spring of 1987.

That was when Minnie Mouse felt me up.

It was my senior year of high school. Alcohol-fueled paranoia and spiritual dissolution were still months away, at least, and for its annual spring trip, my high school band was going to California.

We only got to go out of state every four years, so I naturally found it pretty cool that the big excursion was taking place at the height of my popularity (which, as a band member, placed me somewhere above the Science Club and somewhere below the kid who carried a picture around of him sodomizing a sheep[1]). My group of senior friends and I would have the best bus seating assignments, the choicest hotel accomodations, and first crack at any narcotics purchases. We would, in the vernacular of the Pink Ladies, "rule the school."

All this, of course, was before The Incident.

The trip included all of California's cultural highlights: Knott's Berry Farm, Universal Studios, and Disneyland. The Magic Kingdom was saved for the last day, when we were all running on fumes following a week of underage drinking and late night grope sessions (one of my few moments of good judgement that trip came when I refused to enter the hot tub that already contained 16 people).

Anyway...Disneyland. For some odd reason, Walt's Cabal allowed us to march through the park that day. We assembled "behind the scenes" in preparation, and I got to illegally take photos of everything from secret Disneyland garbage to a guy in a Tigger costume (sans head) smoking a cigarette. The parade went off well, though most park patrons were doubtless confused as to why some random Central Texas high schoolers in dopey outfits were blocking access to the Matterhorn.

Afterwards, we resumed our normal slovenly apparel and wandered around the park. I managed to get pictures with Goofy and Donald Duck before a group of parents, angered that I had monopolized Donald and made their little rugrats cry, drove a group of us towards Main Street. Pausing to regroup, I noticed Snow White posing with some kids a ways down. Not wanting to incur the wrath of any more moms and/or dads, I decided to wait my turn. It was then that I felt it: a clumsy yet unmistakeable clutching of my posterior. Someone had just grabbed my ass.

At first, I assumed it was my girlfriend, as grabbing each other's rears is something I'm told men and women who like each other very much sometimes do. It also explains why I was slow to turn around, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of acting startled. Then it happened again.

Enough was enough, I decided. This was a family corporate theme park, after all, and I didn't need to be party to such brazen gropery. As I began my turn to confront the responsible party, I noticed my girlfriend standing a good twenty feet away, goofing around with some of her friends.

More on autopilot than anything else, I finished my turn, apprehension growing with every degree completed. Once I'd made it all the way around, I stopped. No person stood there to face me, but rather Minnie Mouse, face frozen in that awful smile. She pantomimed embrassment, coyly putting her hand over her mouth and giving me a shy wave. I just stared, unable to reconcile the harmless rodent of my youth with the leering slattern staring back at me. She departed at some point, leaving me standing there, a slack-jawed, thoroughly confused young man. My girlfriend eventually came over to investigate my vegetative state, then laughed uproariously when I described what had occurred, leaving immediately to inform her friends.

Needless to say, that relationship didn't last.

The trip home was uneventful, but I'd be lying if I didn't say my hometown felt a little...smaller, somehow. Things that had once seemed important (grades, fidelity, sobriety) would soon lose their attraction for me. This may very well have been a side effect of leaving home for college, but I prefer to take the American approach and blame society, personified in this case by a giant rat with a bow in her hair.

It took a while, but I've found it in my heart to forgive you, Minnie. I realize that being forced to date your genetic twin can cause some mental instability, and - at the time - Disney had yet to return to promience in the animation field. The Little Mermaid was still two years away, and it wasn't like you were getting a lot of screen time anyway (and what was up with The Fox and the Hound?). Maybe someday I'll find the courage to bring my own family back to Disneyland, and maybe you'll be able to keep your busy hands to yourself this time.

Although...business has been pretty bad for you guys lately, hasn't it?

EPILOGUE

A few years ago I returned to Disneyland with my friend, whom I'll call "Al." Al used to work in the Magic Kingdom, and I eventually related the entire sordid tale to him. He laughed, then pointed out that few, if any, of the people ("cast members") suited up as Disney characters were women.

The fact that Minnie might have been a guy doesn't bother me. What does bother me is the realization that 1987 was probably the last year I was ever attractive enough to warrant attention from a gay dude.

[1] Said person actually existed at my high school