Coney Island, As Told Through Google Images
What?! I went on another trip without taking my camera?! It is true. This time, however, the Lady brought her camera. But I’m not going to be sharing any of those pictures because, together, the two of us look so hot that the pictures might cause your computer to explode. Explode, I say! Also, I already have enough stalkers, and I wouldn’t feel comfortable if they started following the Lady home and going through her garbage, as well. So enjoy the bounty of Google Images as I spin the tale of the Island of Coney.
I woke up pretty early on Monday morning to get ready for the beach. Honestly, I wasn’t really looking forward to it all that much. I had spent all of Sunday outside and had gotten a fairly decent sunburn on my back and shoulders. All I wanted to do was fill my champagne glass-shaped bathtub with aloe and ease my burns. No dice! The Lady said we were going to Coney Island and that was that. We met at my place and headed to the subway to take the Q train out to Brooklyn. Since I’m so used to taking that train uptown, I absent-mindedly guided us towards that track. Just before we got to 14th Street I said, “Oh snap! We’re on the wrong train.” Yes, I do say “Oh, snap.” What of it? We must have looked pretty dumb heading uptown with all of our beach gear. I mean who even goes to the Times Square beach anymore? Hillbillies, that’s who.
We managed to switch to a downtown train, and 40 minutes later we were at Coney Island. I had never been there and didn’t know what to expect. I had heard all the rumors about it being dirty and trashy, so I have to admit I was pleasantly surprised. Sure, there was some tackiness and it was a little crowded, but for the most part I thought Coney Island was pretty nice. We headed up Stillwell Avenue toward the beach. Since thhe beach didn’t look we decided to walk along the boardwalk for a while. There was a lot of paparrazi there and they kept begging me to take off my shirt so they could see “the pecs that built America,” but I politely refused. “Let me have my dignity!” I screamed. Then I started throwing pina coladas at them.
Anyway, we headed for the beach and managed to stake out a nice spot. Oh God, was it ever hot. I was sweating like crazy just from lying down. After reading for a little while, I decided to give the ocean a try. It was crowded with little kids and ice-cold, so I waded in slowly. By the time I had waded in up to my waist, I saw three little drug baggies floating in the water. Three! In a 5-foot radius. That shit was gross. I was a little scared of what else I might find, so the Lady and I packed up and headed to the boardwalk to eat.
I got an Italian Sausage and some onion rings. Neither were very good. They tasted like someone found them in an abandoned freezer, microwaved them, and then threw them in a fryer for good measure. The Lady bought a knish. I was furious. I don’t like knishes. I wanted her to get mozzarella sticks so I could shout, “Look over there!” And then when she looked over there, I would steal all her mozzarella sticks and then blame it on a seagull. Don’t judge me!
After we ate our respective terrible meals, we headed to the rides. Most of the rides at Coney Island are the type you would find at a county or state fair. The kind that look like they can be assembled or disassembled in a few hours. I do not trust those rides. When I was in high school, my friend Tim worked at his uncle’s food stand at the Erie County Fair. The stories he told me about carnies have haunted me to this day. Suffice it to say, carnies are not the most responsible people. That’s why I only ride the rides that are permanently bolted to the ground. Those ones are less likely to be operated by a dirty carny who has to pack everything up on a moment’s notice because the cops found out that his deathtrap of a Tilt-a-whirl killed children in several states.
That left us with one ride: The Cyclone. Built in the 1920’s, I think the Cyclone is one of the country’s oldest roller coasters. It might be the oldest. But if you think I’m going to bother looking that up, you are dead wrong. We got our tickets for the Cyclone and waited in line. I wasn’t expecting much from it. It’s an 80 year old roller coaster. How scary can it be? Pretty damn scary is the answer. First of all, the Cyclone looks all of its 80 years. From the peeling paint to the mummies manning the ticket booth, it looks like the only renovations it’s seen in 80 years are maybe a couple coats of paint. Secondly, the cars are tiny. The Lady, who is quite thin, and I barely fit into one together. I don’t know how they cram the rest of the fatties into them, and, frankly, I don’t want to know. I’ll be it involves Crisco and a large shoe horn-like device. The ride itself was pretty awesome, and I was tempted to ride again, but that would have cost like 4 dollars.
Next, we rode Dante’s Inferno, which is one of those haunted house rides. Holy shit, was it ever terrible. There were times during the ride that I thought it was broken because it seemed like we were just riding through darkness for minutes at a time. Do not waste your money on this ride. After Dante’s we soured a little on the rides. We got some ice cream, walked around a little more, got lost, finally found the subway, and headed home.
So yeah, Coney Island was pretty fun. I even wrote a song about it:
Coney Island,
Oh Coney Island.
Not Boney Island,
Or Stoney Island.
(Dance Break)
Coney Island,
Super fun, Number one!
That shit is going to be huge in Japan.
