I've never been to Disney World. Or Land. But my parents brought me back one of these a few years ago WHEN I WAS MOTHER FUCKING THIRTY.
Before I continue, I need to explain something. When we were growing up, Brother Jerkface and I took sibling fighting to a level only appreciated by evil super-villains or WWE (or WWF, whatever the fuck they are called now). We nearly flooded my parents house during a Waterworld-esque spitball fight that graduated from, well, spitballs to buckets of water, a hose and entire rolls of paper towels. In another, we managed to turn something as innocent as baking flour into a total fucking scourge of epic proportions. I think it took my mother weeks to clean up all that flour out of her upholstery. Shoes were wielded like grenades and I promise you, anything thrown at your face at maximum velocity is going to hurt like a mother fucker. Including Munchkins. I only experienced that last one secondhand but my friend walked around with a glazed welt on her forehead for awhile.
I meant these Munchkins, not those creepy creatures from the Wizard of Oz that terrified me. Though I imagine it would hurt a lot more if you got hit in the face with one of them.
In short, we were creatively destructive.
Back to the souvenirs.
When I was eleven or so Daddy (not a)Jerkface went on a business trip somewhere in the Southwest. Upon his return, Brother and I eagerly waited for him to pull our gifts out of his suitcase. Mine was a beautiful little blue leather purse with all these beaded fringes (fuck off, it was the eighties) and a really pretty Native American design.
My brother got a bullwhip. A fucking real leather, flay-your-skin-off fucking bullwhip.
Oh, hey, let's get our kid a bullwhip. I got him a machete and a Glock last year. This will be a new toy.
Sometimes I think my parents used to do shit like this as a kind of experiment to see just how evil their children really were. I know I would. But even in my ADD-addled eleven year old brain I knew this was not a good idea. There was about a 20 minute period between me racing out the front door to hide somewhere and my mother confiscating the bullwhip that I don't fully recall. All I know is that my brother learned very painfully that if you don't "whip" the bullwhip properly you will end up whipping yourself in the back.
It was the shortest lived "toy" that ever passed the threshold of my parent's house. They stuck to more non-violent souvenirs after that.
Or so I thought. Fast forward twenty-two years to the current day. My folks had recently returned from a whirlwind vacation in the Grand Canyon and Las Vegas. They had a blast.
ML and I went to see my parents house last weekend to look at pictures from their trip and as we were leaving, my mom hands me a bag and tells me she bought ML and I some souvenirs. I thanked her and thought it was really nice that she got something for ML.
Until I saw what it was:
Really, Mom? Really?
For those of you who were angelic children and have never seen something like this, it's a rubber band shooter. You hook the rubber band over the nose of gun and secure it with the clothespin. When you're ready to permanently blind someone, you release the clothespin.
Clearly, Mommy (not a)Jerkface is not done with her experimenting. But I guess she's already come to terms with the level of hooliganism in her children so now she's testing my boyfriend.