Monday, November 2, 2009

Dilfyland.


For Halloween, this year, I visited the Dilfy Resort in Anaheim, mostly to see the Halloween attractions at Dilfyland, like this big Mick O'Lantern on Main Street.


What? "Disneyland"? Well yes; that's what I used to call it, but I have changed its name to Dilfyland. Why? Because the place was full of prize DILFs. What is a DILF? Well, the first letter stands for "Dads". Yes, a DILF is a "Dad I'd Like to Fool-around-with-naked."


Dilfyland this last Friday was packed with DILFs, sadly, all dragging around one to five noisy rugrats, often pushing some in strollers. Single, or at least childless, hot men were in short supply. How is a grown man supposed to enjoy riding on Mr. Toad's Wild Ride or The Many Adventures of Winnie-the-Pooh if he's stuck with kids? They ruin it!


I was seated next to a particularly adorable DILF on the Finding Nemo submarine ride. He had this two year old boy with him, and the boy just wasn't having it. He kept complaining all through the ride, "Fish don't talk!" He didn't know much, but he knew fish don't talk. You'd think his DILF could have explained to him that I'm not a fish, I just smell like that sometimes in a closed environment like a submarine, or whenever I'm going down. The boy would look at me, and then hide his eyes in his hands. His DILF would say, "Where's Jack? I can't see Jack!" and he gave me a weird look when I helpfully piped in with, "Well, Jack's usually at a Laker's game."


When I'd had enough of the little brat, whom his DILF had seated between he and I, where the boy was very much in the way, I tried pointing out that toad's don't drive motorcars, birds don't sing words, and the flowers don't croon, so when at Dilfyland, why carp about singing carp? But little Jack wasn't buying it. Fish don't talk! On the good side, if he stays this hard-headed, religion will have a hard time sinking its filthy claws into him.


There was a really distasteful spectacle around 9:20 PM, in and over Fantasyland. Let me put it this way. Mickey needs to watch his diet and mind his manners, because when he lights his farts, it's spectacular, but I could hear even Mel Brooks saying, "That's in questionable taste."



Along with DILFs, there was also a lot of MODs. Those are Morbidly Obese Dads. The MODs were almost always accompanied by moms who were MOMs. How these paired porkers ever managed to get their genitalia close enough to each other to spawn their hoards of MOKs is a mystery to me, but I'll bet it always occurred in extremely dark rooms.


Actually, Dilfyland is a good place for MODs, MOMs, and MOKs, as the food is so extremely expensive that they can't possibly afford to gain any more weight while there. For the price of a hamburger, a coke, and fries, you can buy an annual pass to the park. And you can't buy alcohol at all! Some Happiest Place on Earth.


Is Halloween scary at Dilfyland? Well, when you're about to ride "Soarin' Over California" in California Dilfy Adventure, and a 350 pound MOD sits down next to you, with his 300 pound MOM and their gigantic children, while the ride attendants use a crowbar to pry their flab away from over the safety belt buckle long enough to fasten it, it becomes very scary indeed. The whole row sagged when we took off next to these ginormous human slugs. Who knew Jabba the Hut and his family vacationed at the Dilfy Resort? On the other hand, when there's a family of the morbidly obese in your bobsled, you shoot down the Matterhorn much faster! We were even passing bobsleds on the same track we were on! (I'm told there were survivors.)


After riding Ghost Galaxy (Space Mountian with a Halloween overlay, although I don't see how one can ever be over-laid!) with gross fatties, Jack Skellington in the Haunted Mansion is small potatoes. Say what you will about Jack, he's skinny!



The guests at the Dilfy Resort were almost too polite! I was in the parks for 12 hours, and not once did anyone ask me for an autograph! True, I was "incognito," but that just meant I didn't have Little Dougie walking ahead of me shouting "Make way for Miss Tallulah Morehead, the Nearly-Living Legend" through a bullhorn. (The security people confiscated the bullhorn at the park entrance. Some excuse about "noise pollution," whatever that means.) Oh, I got recognized once, but somehow a man saying "Wow! You stink worse than your films!" isn't what I had in mine. How can I announce in a lordly manner "No autographs today! I'm just a touristy nonentity like all you nobodies." if no one asks for one?


And then there was the kid who, on seeing me exiting the Haunted Mansion (so reminiscent of my own palatial home, Morehead Heights), shouted "Hey look! One of the robot spooks got loose!" That kid found himself swimming in the Rivers of America but fast.


But beware of some false promises there. One sign proclaimed I could ride "Big Thunder." That sounded like my kind of a good time, but when I got there, it was just a roller coaster in Bryce Canyon. When I go on a "Jungle Cruise," I expect large black men to be lining up to violate me. All this had was a lot of robotic animals, though the Woody Strode androids were all kind of hot. And the young man piloting our jungle boat wasn't so much Humphrey Bogart, as an African Queen. Well, he was white, so he was more of an Anaheim Queen.


At least when I rode "Dumbo," he was hung like an elephant!



For "Trick or Treat," they played quite a good trick on everyone. Although Dilfyland stayed open until midnight, with the big shows, Mickey's Sky Farts, and in Frontierland, out on the river, the extravaganza called Orgasmic, all in the night time, the park next door, California Dilf Adventure, closed at 6 PM, so everyone who was in that park came over into Dilfyland to see Orgasmic and watch Mickey light his farts. Suddenly it was so crowded, you could barely stagger around the park. I didn't mind getting pressed up against the DILFs, but getting pressed into the MODs was no fun at all, and impossible to avoid.


California Dilf Adventure's primary function is to give you a place to get away from the crowds. They have shorter lines than EuroDisney! That's not to say that there's nothing any fun there. I enjoyed Soarin', and I loved riding California Screamin', which the ride operator ever-so-kindly allowed me to ride without using the dress-crushing safety restraints. After all, restraint is not something I have ever been known for, either in life or on screen.



And as for scary Halloween decor, the big Ferris wheel, Mickey's Fun Wheel, had had attached to it the terrifying visage of The Giant Rat of Sumatra, the biggest and most-vicious rodent in the world!



So all told, if cruisin' DILFs is your idea of a good time, Dilfyland is the place to go. As I said to one very hot DILF, when he asked me if I'd like to ride Splash Mountain: "If you'll do the mountin', I'll do the ridin', and we can both splash out!" His rather odd reply was; "Security!!!"


How can it be "The Happiest Place on Earth" if I can't get a drink or a tumble from a hot DILF?


Speaking of which, from my last visit, here I am in The Tragic Kingdom with the hottest DILF on earth, whose son is wisely showing fear of The Giant Rat of Sumatra.



Just a quick reminder. I am sill flogging Survivor: Samoa over on The Huffington Post. Here's a photo of me over on Samoa. Allow me to correct a silly misinterpretation of this picture. Several people have thought that in this picture, Rocket Scientist John, and my Future Ex-Husband Jaison are fleeing from me as fast as they can. Such nonsense. I'd mentioned that my cocktail was nearly finished, and they are racing each other to get me a fresh vodka martini. Such sweet boys.



Anyway, my latest posting there is titled Here's to the Pirates Who Lunch. Read and enjoy.



Cheers darlings.

4 comments:

Kathy said...

Sounds like you had a fabulous time, Tallulah. I had almost as much fun reading about it. My one disappointment was that the "Happiest Place on Earth" apparently doesn't attract many SMILFs. (Not that I'm a prude, I just like to think I have the option of keeping one around for a day or two or ten.)

Tallulah Morehead said...

Short Munchkins I'd Like to Fool around with naked? Darling, the Munchkins are all Judy Garland fans, if you get me. Also, "short Munchkins" are the only kind they make.

Or did "SM" stand for Sado-Masochists? Because you need a streak of masochism to hit Dilfyland with a hoarde of kids.

Or does "SM" stand for Silly Masturbators?

Socratic Method?

Sorry Matrons?

Silcone Mammaries?

Cheers darling.

Marc said...

Hey, I loved your review of The Fountainhead. No. I'm not gay and I'm not Liberal. I'm a real guy.

It's showing on TCM right now.
I was looking for a review. I found yours. Your review is a lot better than the screenplay thus far.

I was disappointed at the beginning, when Howard Roark visited his hero architect and the poor nutty dude clutched his heart and dropped under the drafting table. The movie went downhill from there.

But simply because it's a lousy screenplay doesn't mean that Ms. Rand's philosophy has been disproven. Was she wrong about the riff-raff of the world?

I don't think soooo.

Tallulah Morehead said...

" Marc said...
Hey, I loved your review of The Fountainhead. No. I'm not gay and I'm not Liberal. I'm a real guy."


Liberals, gay men, and even liberal gay men, are all "real guys" too. Rather offensive to come here and imply otherwise.

"simply because it's a lousy screenplay doesn't mean that Ms. Rand's philosophy has been disproven. Was she wrong about the riff-raff of the world?"

Yes. For instance, she missed that she was riff-raff herself, very virulent riff-raff. Snobism is hardly a valid basis for a philosophy.

That the movie is crap doesn't mean her philosophy is disproven, true. But that her philosophy is hateful selfishness that would lead to crime and chaos, and is indulged in and believed in only by the immature, the stupid, and the hateful, does. It is and she was Evil.