My lovely wife and I recently traveled to Six Flags Darien Lake.  While we had an enjoyable time there, despite the closure of a significant portion of the park (due to the end of the summer season -- our admission fee was reduced accordingly), I was struck by certain bits of absurdity that I thought I would pass on.

Walking into the park wearing my PhilElmore.com: Beware Angry Ninja baseball hat, I happily and obliviously approached what turned out to be metal detectors.  A young lady intercepted me with a small plastic basket in hand.  She took my wireless phone (at which point it dawned on me that they were actually screening amusement park guests for metals -- something they'd never done in previous visits) and I emptied my pockets.

The security guard posted at a table beyond the detector gleefully grabbed the basket.  "We've got some goodies here," he proclaimed.  He proceeded to bag and tag (for later retrieval by me at Lost and Found) the Deadly and Lethal Weapons I was carrying on my person:

Micra, Chinese SAK copy, & real SAK

My Leatherman Micra, whose most deadly implement is a tiny pair of scissors, was taken.  My cheap Chinese knockoff of a Swiss Army Knife -- the smallest model made -- was also taken.  Yet the screeners obliviously passed a third ultra deadly keyring SAK without comment.

As I wandered away somewhat dazed, holding my Lost and Found slip in one clenched fist, I could not help but wonder to where I might attempt to hijack the Giant Wheel or the nearest roller coaster with tiny spring-operated scissors.  Thank your lucky stars that at least one out of every three tiny pairs of scissors is being stopped at the gates.

The tiny scissors confiscation incident behind us, my wife and I went about thoroughly enjoying our visit.  The "Tin Lizzy" ride, a favorite, involves driving small motor-driven cars around a track.  There is little room for deviation from the track course, but it's fun anyway.  While waiting in line for this, however, I spied one of those contingents one hates to encounter in public:  an Obviously Stupid Mother who has spawned Two Obviously Stupid Children. 

The children -- slack-jawed, tow-headed hellions with blank stares that will one day confront you from across the counter at a McDonalds -- looked as if someone had taken a glazed donut and smeared it across their shirts, so covered in sticky residue were they.  It is a little known fact that children under the age of eight -- who are festering little bags of disease, by the way -- do not possess pores.  No, where their pores will be later in life are spinnerets that produce the sticky ooze with which children under eight always seem to be covered.

Climbing on the railing and on nearby park patrons as Obviously Stupid Children with Obviously Stupid Mothers are wont to do, the vile creatures spent their time impatiently bothering others until it was their turn to ride.  When the Stupid Woman entered one car with the youngest of her sticky burdens in tow, she seemed surprised and confused that her other stupid child was not allowed to drive a car of his own.

Appealing with blank-eyed, Natural-Selection-Waiting-To-Happen stares at the assembled crowd, she found a woman good-hearted enough to take her older child on another car.  I watched with some amusement as the woman -- who rode the car in front of me -- never once looked back to the car two positions behind mine, wherein her child rode with a complete stranger.  Said child, allowed too much control over the vehicle's (albeit less than lightning) speed, rode precariously close to my wife's care the entire time. 

I was torn.  Should I feel bad that this woman's child could be stolen thanks to her stupidity?  Or should I feel relieved for the child, who will probably be better of with anyone else for a parent?  Your guess is as good as mine.

Also while waiting in line at the Tin Lizzy, my wife and I spotted a pair of people sleeping on a nearby patch of grass.  They were contorted in such a way that they looked dead.  I suppose they could have been.  Many dead bodies could sprawl about at the average amusement park without spurring much interest, as most of us are reluctant to touch the surface of the picnic tables there, much less the prone forms of other park-goers.

The park held other memorable moments for me.  For example, I raced gasoline-powered go-carts against a group of German tourists.  I retain enough German vocabulary to know that one of them had only driven a car once before in his life.  I think he passed me on the track.

I tried, for the first time, Dippin' Dots, the alleged "Ice Cream of the Future."  I was... less than impressed.  Dippin' Dots, as my wife observed, are like frozen ice cream spores.  They do not taste like ice cream.  They stick to the spoon in a manner I find both fascinating and off-putting.  They are frozen pellets that I would not feed to a prison inmate, much less eat voluntarily.  If the future holds lunches of Soylent Green followed by desserts of Dippin' Dots, I hope I do not live to see it.

Several times throughout the course of our visit, I saw Batman.

The "Batman Thrill Ride Spectacular" is an attraction at Darien Lake best experienced when stone deaf.  Don't worry if you are not stone deaf when you go there, for you soon will be.  The attraction boasts several "special effects" wherein real motorcycles are driven onto a stage and followed by real guns discharging blanks.  Real explosions follow.  There is a reason that motorcycles, firearms, and explosions are not typically experienced indoors, no matter how large the theater in which they take place.  The reason is that they are FREAKING LOUD and will DEAFEN YOU.

But I digress.  As I said, I saw Batman several times.  He was most likely between shows each time, and had perfected the Batman Strut as he sauntered around the park.  I can only imagine how much the man in the suit must enjoy wearing that suit.  He must feel endlessly cool.  I know I would.  I would walk the park in the suit every chance I got.

"Hey Steve," I'd tell my coworker, "I'm going to get some fried dough."

"You're still wearing the costume, Phil."

"Yeah, I know.  I'm Batman."

While sitting on a bench contemplating my Dippin' Dots, and wondering what they were doing to my intestines, I saw Batman strut by.  He looked at me.  I looked at him.

Then that awful woman walked past, her younger, stickier child in a stroller.

I waited.

Batman passed from view.

I watched a trio of children chased by park workers dressed as zombies, all part of a Halloween promotion.

And then, finally, the older of the Stupid Woman's sticky children went running past.

Next year, when I return to Darien Lake, I intend to go with a pocketful of twenty or thirty cheap Chinese Swiss Army Knife copies.  I will go knowing that I will not accept the gift of a Stupid Person's sucrose-covered child, no matter what park ride is at stake.  I will go knowing that trying Dippin' Dots once in one's life is enough.  And I will go completely dressed in black, a sly look on my face and my hands in my tiny-scissors-filled pockets.  When the security guard stops me and demands to know just who I think I am, I will tell him.