DISNEYLAND
BY RORY DOUGLAS
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You’re nine years old, and your dad reads you Bible stories every night before you go to sleep. The ones about David and Noah and the animals are pretty cool. Jesus freaks you out. It’s cool how he healed people, and the stuff he said is fine, but the pictures freak you out. His white bathrobe and Herbal-Essences hair—he looks exactly like the guy you’re not supposed to take candy from under any circumstances, the guy that sits outside your grade school in a van. So your dad’s reading you a story about a very rich guy that wanted to follow Jesus, and Jesus tells the guy he has to sell all his possessions—those are like his toys, your dad tells you—and then follow him, and then he’d have treasure in heaven. That sounds rad, treasure in heaven, like a Spongebob with Pokemon powers that hooks up to an X-Box remote. The next day you have a garage sale and sell your toys, and some of your sister’s. You don’t sell all of them, so you sell the rest of the toys to your sister. (Some of them were hers anyways.) You check the mail everyday, but no treasure from heaven. A few days later you remember that you’re supposed to follow Jesus, so after school when that guy in the van asks you if you want any candy, you say sure. And could he give you a ride somewhere? Sure thing, he says. You hop in the van and ask where you’re going. You ever heard of Disneyland? he says. It takes about an hour to get to Disneyland, but when you get there there aren’t any lines. You go on Splash Mountain five times and then ride Space Mountain until the park closes. On your way out the man buys you a pair of Mickey ears with your name on them. Disneyland is rad. The man takes you home. [Forever after at http://eyeshot.net/rory.html] |
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