Travel Writing

I’ve been meaning to do more travel writing, and not just because I heard you can cadge free trips for doing so.

All the great writers of the world - Hemingway, Shakespeare, Stalin - got free airline travel to far off places and wrote about them for fun and profit. Why not me?

Just to show that I (and my family) are worthy of several international junkets, let me tell you about Disneyland, truly a magic kingdom where dollar bills are made to magically disappear at a magically fast pace.

I took the family there once, and we experienced a wonderful world of joy until our money ran out about an hour later. After that, we enjoyed many of the free activities that are available on site, such as trash and coin picking up, washroom visiting, letting the kids shine shoes until the cops come along, and of course the many free parades where grandmothers nod off on benches and leave their handbags slightly open.

Meanwhile, my wife and I were debating whose kidney to sell so we could enjoy a hot dog.

We also suffered severe brain damage by going on the ‘It’s a Small World’ boat ride, the only ride we could afford, where an endless array of loud speakers played the incredibly sweet, repetitive song ‘It’s a Small Annoying World After All’ over and over and over!

The ride starts off pleasantly enough. You meander along in your small boat through scenic world vistas while listening to the treacly, skull-numbing song It’s a Small Price to Pay for Not Having Your Kids Barf After All.

Something like that.

Then the song starts getting to you, and you realize there is no escape. After the 17^th repetition of It’s OK to Spend Money After All, you begin to notice subtleties in the music you didn’t hear before. Like the sound of gunshots from the staff room as long-term staff (one hour) begin blasting their toes off with powerful handguns rather than submit their ears to another minute of this brain-mushing torture.

You notice after the 29^th repeat of It’s a Small Price to Pay for a Hotdog You Are Getting Very Sleepy After All, that you are still only one third of the way along the winding, butt-numbing route.

The people in the boat ahead of you, who boarded their tub with traces of joy on their faces, are now starting to dribble blood from their ears as they search for ways to use the emergency fire axe on their shipmates in order to escape the din.

Meanwhile, the musical number It’s Good To Vote For Dick Cheney Who Sits On The Disney Board After All continues, getting louder and louder, and you find there is no throttle on the boat to make it go faster. There are no ejection seats or life rafts or signal flares either. You are stuck in it and forced to look at stupid little robots shouting their stupid song It’s a Long Way to The Exit So Hand Us Your Wallet You Fat Slob After All and why is my face twitching again!?

We learned our lesson that first day, and for the remainder of the trip we just stayed in our hotel room and watched the Disney Channel on TV. We had Disneyland representatives come directly to our room every few hours to take piles of cash from us by humming the song It’s Like Water Boarding After All, which worked out great since it kept us from getting sore feet and the kids didn’t urp up corn dogs and we had ready access to beverages for washing down our anti-psychotic medications.

So, airlines and exotic hotels! What do you say? Comps on their way?

Tell you what. You undo these straps I’ve been gnawing on, and then I can get started on the Hawaii piece right away. Deal?

Getting Cleaned

-->

This column won 3rd place in America's Funniest Humor Writing Contest and has since been published in several Dental Association magazines and newsletters throughout the U.S. and Canada.

-->

I was working hard at home, in the middle of a difficult task in my office, when I was distracted by the business line ringing. I paused my game (ahem) and answered the phone…

“Mr. Crawford, this is Ilsa, ‘She-Wolf of the SS’ calling from the dentist’s office, with a reminder that you are overdue for your teeth cleaning. Again. Please report to the office immediately or we’ll burn down your house.”

I’m just kidding – she didn’t really say ‘report to the office’.

So I prepare for my date with destiny two days hence. This means brushing one’s teeth so violently that your spouse suspects you have come down with a virulent new strain of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

“You’re not fooling anyone you know,” my wife said. “And don’t floss so hard either – look at all the gunk on the mirror. It’s disgusting.”

I brush and floss sixteen times per day, unlike my usual two. Well, four if the hygienist is asking.

This attempt at atonement is akin to hitting the gym nine times per day, beginning two days before your Caribbean cruise departure. Or driving conservatively when the gas gauge in the car is nearing empty.

The Day arrived.

I found myself deep in enemy territory, resisting their clever interrogation techniques. I surrendered only what is allowed under the Geneva Convention - name, address, dental plan number.

In the waiting room, I frantically ate an entire bag of Oreo cookies in a show of defiance to my captors. As my cheeks bulged, The Torture Beast herself, wearing a perky red jumpsuit, no doubt to hide the blood stains, emerged from her lair.

She smiled charmingly, spittle dripping from her fangs as she grinned her evil grin, and dragged me by the hand into the nearest chamber.

There, armed with the tiny, hideous metal implements of her trade, she tirelessly poked, prodded and scraped my mouth back to a condition of hygienic perfection unseen in years.

I nearly bled to death.

At some point in this process, punctuated by her cries of “Please stop screaming Mr. Crawford!” and “Security, tighten the straps!” she ushered in the great man himself.

The Dentist.

He was wearing a mask (as all professional torturers do), and proceeded to open my clenched jaw by asking me an innocuous question about my golf game, then plunging his fingers into my mouth when I attempted to answer.

Clever.

Using the little magnifier thingy’s on his glasses, he examined my teeth and called out strange coded messages to his assistant, Igor.

“Number 28, Stan Musial on third, humidor molar…”

“7^th at Belmont, 25 on Bicuspid to win…”

Something like that anyway.

After more poking and speaking in tongues, he said “Everything looks good I’ll have to take some x-rays and everything you need done will be ten thousand dollars rinse please!”

I may have passed out at that point.

After he had his way with me (so to speak), I didn’t think I could endure any more, brave though I had been up to that point. Alas, my story doesn’t end there.

I still had to survive the Getting the Teeth Rubbed with Gritty Mud Technique, and the Mouthful of Minty Foam Procedure. All the while they were plying me for information – knowledge about the weather or my business or my children.

I resisted as best I could.

I’m not clear on how I got away. I remember brief flashes of things - running with the paper bib flapping around my neck, leaping over a waiting room coffee table, writing a cheque – it’s all a blur.

I have recovered for the most part. I still get the odd flashback, but I’m fine. Really. Thanks for asking.

Just remember to keep some floss in your Escape and Evasion kit. It is useful stuff when you need tripwires or booby traps.