Internet Zillionaire

After my fiance and I braved a weekend at Disneyland with Krusty and Maleah, I felt obligated to offer some advice to future park goers: If you plan on attending Disneyland, please have the courtesy to leave your children at home. I can’t stress this enough, Disneyland is no place for children. First, watching Krusty inadvertently trample a five year-old girl in the darkness of Injun Joe’s cave on Tom Sawyer’s Island confirmed that children pose a unique safety concern. Second, there are lots of moments at Disneyland that inspire prolonged outbursts of profanity, and sometimes it is difficult to substitute the phrases “frickin” and “gosh-darned” as often as needed. And finally, Disneyland is completely devoid of the most effective method of coping with screaming children: Alcohol.

With that said, our first stop was Splash Mountain. As the ridiculously long lines indicate, this is generally the most popular attraction at Disneyland. Consequently, most people usually depart base camp at the foot of the mountain at first light. If the weather conditions are favorable, and with a team of Sherpas functioning as guides, most can ascend a few hundred feet by nightfall. Reaching the summit, and the front of the line, can take months. In essence, actual mountains are quicker to traverse.

Krusty and I knew we weren’t physically capable of such an endeavor. This is why Disneyland’s latest invention, “FastPass,” is truly a godsend. For each attraction, FastPass enables savvy individuals to reserve a spot at the front of the line by obtaining a special ticket, and showing up several hours later to claim your spot at the front of the line. We also had to join a pyramid scheme, forward on a chain letter to 13 people, and file it all in our tax return. Anyway, somehow it all actually works. We were able to shrink a three-hour wait for Splash Mountain down to 10 minutes.

Simply put, possession of the FastPass is the closest thing in our society to being born into royalty. In essence, you are above the law. There is no greater capital offense in a long-line situation than taking cuts in front of those who have waited patiently for hours. It is a crime worse than murder, because at least in a homicide, the line gets shorter.

With the FastPass, you can cut in line with impunity. There are few things more satisfying than breezing past throngs of impatient people, feeling their murderous gaze of jealousy as you nonchalantly and unapologetically cut in front of them. Of course the human skeletons adorning the sides of the popular rides are not fake. They are either the remains of those who have perished from the long waits in line, or the victims of “FastPass Envy,” the Disneyland version of road rage.

At Krusty’s request, our next stop was the Enchanted Tiki Room. We all objected to this choice, especially since it had a five-minute wait before the next show. It seemed eerily like showing up early for jury duty. We filed in, and Krusty selected four seats right up front. On a rare stroke of brilliance on my part, I advised our party to move and grab the four seats closest to the exit. “These are the best seats in the house,” I declared. As the lights dimmed and a series of animatronic tropical birds began singing annoying songs, I looked over and saw Krusty burying his head in his hands, knowing that his actions had brought unspeakable misery upon his companions.

Thankfully, my exit-seat foresight paid off, and we silently bolted from the Tiki Room four seconds later. The next day, I looked up the word “Enchanted” in the dictionary, and sure enough, it doesn’t mean, “mind numbingly boring,” as my experience in the Tiki Room would suggest.

While we all had reason to doubt Krusty’s judgment in rides after the Enchanted Tiki Room debacle, it was really Maleah’s ride preferences that concerned us the most. Her taste in rides centered around tree houses, petting zoos and the double-decker buses that drove around Main Street Disneyland.

Maleah led us to the Swiss Family Robinson’s tree house, which is now called “Tarzan’s Treehouse.” Frankly, Tarzan has been a pretty lousy tenant. The conveyer belts and water transportation elevators are gone, as Tarzan has generally let the place go. I’m not sure what actually became of the Swiss Family Robinson, and in what way, if any, Tarzan is involved in their disappearance.

Another new attraction at Disneyland is Mickey’s Toontown, also known as “High-Pitched Screeching Whistle Land.” There is never a single moment of silence, as ToonTown is completely devoid of a library or funeral home. Frankly, I am convinced that Planned Parenthood is a major sponsor of this land. Somehow, glassy-eyed parents stand in line with their kids, completely oblivious to the shrill, gratuitous noise around them. Like a dog whistle, noises of this frequency can only be heard by couples that don’t have kids, and it is the most powerful form of birth control on the planet.

Sizing up the ridiculous lines and screaming children all over Disneyland, I realized there are few places on earth that I’ve been more motivated to drink. Of course, we heard lots of rumors about a secret bar located in Disneyland. Legend has it that an unmarked door somewhere near Pirates of the Caribbean leads to a Disneyland speakeasy. Like the mythical Fountain of Youth, many have searched every corner of Disneyland for its location. It’s easy to see why, after about three minutes in the Enchanted Tiki Room I would have preferred a lukewarm beer to eternal youth any day.

Tomorrowland was especially disappointing. First off, Space Mountain was closed for repairs until 2005, unless you used FastPass, in which case the wait is only until November 2004. (On a side note, is Space Mountain ever not under repair?) Gone is the attraction known as Captain EO, a 3-D movie starring Michael Jackson in the very believable role of an intergalactic space hero from the future. I was actually looking forward to seeing this movie again, because like many Arnold Schwartzenegger movies, it has unintentionally evolved from an action movie into a comedy.

The Submarine Ride, (aka The Tiki Room Underwater) was decommissioned as part of a disarmament treaty following the end of the Cold War. The gondola ride high above the park was also taken down, presumably because it violated Fantasyland’s airspace. And sadly, Star Tours is still taking guests to the Moon of Endor, even though both Krusty and I expressed a preference for traveling to the desert planet, Tatooine.

But by far, the biggest letdown in Tomorrowland was Innoventions (another Maleah selection). Their slogan: Come See Last Week’s Tomorrow! Apparently, like their other attractions, Disney only updates this exhibit every 20 years or so. Instead of an exhibit of cutting-edge future technology, we were shown “Future Wonders” that have been obsolete for 8 years. Based on this exhibit, I’m pretty sure Disney’s vision of the future includes a meteor hitting the earth forcing us to live a primitive existence with only Windows ’98 and Nintendo 64’s.

The biggest surprise at Innoventions was the guide’s enthusiasm for a wonderful new invention called… “THE INTERNET!!!” I was actually thrilled by this at first, figuring I’d have a chance to check my email or at least post these complaints on Internet Zillionaire in real time. They had literally 50 computers set aside for Internet demonstrations but none could surf the web outside of the Innoventions homepage. I walked out shaking my head, knowing that this was not the way Al Gore envisioned the Internet.

Based on their exuberance for the Internet and obsolete technology, it’s clear the staff at Innoventions apparently has no contact with the outside world. I was tempted to show the crowd my cell phone or digital camera, but I feared being mistaken for a time traveler or a member of an advanced alien race from a distant solar system.

As we were getting set to leave the park, Krusty and I headed to the monorail station to transport us to Downtown Disney, the shopping area where we were to meet the girls. While waiting in line, I actually had a monorail attendant tell me I could walk to Downtown Disney faster than the monorail could take me there. As I am prone to do, I did the math. Capable of traveling 120 mph, a monorail could have reached our destination in 15 seconds. Of course, one also needs to add on the standard Disney 45-minute Waiting Time. Krusty and I desperately had to get to Downtown Disney, not because the girls were waiting for us, but because it is the only place within 15 miles where alcohol was readily available. So, we jumped out of line and walked in the blistering sun, wondering if we could sue them over their declaration that Disneyland is the “Happiest Place on Earth.”

Allow me to share a word with you that I coined back in August of 2001:

Dealbreaker: A vacation or journey with a friend that is so long, demanding, or epic in scope that you question whether you’ll still be friends with this person once the trip is over…

Now, imagine multiplying that Dealbreaker factor by eight people, adding in a Las Vegas coefficient, and raising it all to the Zillionth power… It was the first week of April 2003, and a brave fellowship set forth to get really wasted in the streets of Las Vegas. On the one-year anniversary of this trip, I’ve decided to share some of the highlights…

Thursday morning, approximately 10 am: Jeannette and I met up with the rest of the fellowship at SeaTac. Dave was weary after an all-nighter of Xbox, Julie arrived completely decaffeinated and lamenting the fact she had forgot to pack her lactaid, and Jace and Pete had spent the last two hours drinking margaritas in the airport bar. So far, so good…

As the plane was beginning to board, Dave decided it would be a good time to lay face down on a row of seats in the terminal. It was a full flight, and seats were filling up. Since Dave had neglected to get in line with the rest of us, he was among the very last to board the plane, and thus was forced to take a lone available seat several rows in front of us.

Normally, this seat wouldn’t be too bad, except Dave’s head now served as a target for wads of paper and airline peanuts for the next two hours of the flight. As the saying goes, it is all fun and games until someone loses an eye, or until Pete nails an air marshal with an errant wad of paper. (True story…) When the air marshal shot an angry glare in his direction, Pete adhered to the “drunken jackass school of etiquette” and challenged the guy to a fight. Fortunately, before a scene from Passenger 57 could be reenacted, a nearby flight attendant calmed tensions and informed us that the passenger Pete had chosen to antagonize was, indeed, an air marshal…

Since none of us were being detained by the FAA, we considered it a cause for celebration. Upon landing, we gathered our luggage and decided to take a limo from the airport to our hotel. The limo was fully stocked with alcohol, and naturally, we had to rectify that situation. In the fifteen minute drive to our hotel, the six of us liquidated every beer in the fridge and then began drinking whiskey and scotch directly out of the decanters. This probably goes without saying; moderation would not be the theme of this trip.

We were staying at the Sahara, probably a sweet hotel in 1965, but it simply lacked the pirate show, synthetic volcano or giant pyramid we’d come to expect in Vegas accommodations. However, this didn’t diminish Dave’s exuberance in the slightest, as he had never been in a casino before. In fact, he literally disappeared from the group for about 17 of the first 18 hours we were there. It was almost comical… The rest of us had at least a marginal interest in exploring the hotel, relaxing by the pool, and eating and sleeping. Not Dave, his first objective was to find a giant slot machine. When he located a ten-foot tall specimen, he pulled the handle and instantly won five dollars. Sadly, this initial stroke of luck would not last…

Friday Morning: Having little luck elsewhere in the casino, Dave and I decided to play something new, so we selected Pai-Gow poker. Thankfully, the table was empty and we figured it would be a good opportunity to learn the game. Unfortunately, our dealer, Bin, spoke only one word of English: “Ante.”

We’d turn over our hands, Bin would point at the cards, nod or shake her head, put on a sock-puppet show, basically anything to bridge the language gap and show us the proper way to arrange our hand. Needless to say, Pai-Gow soon became our game of choice.

Dave had some interesting logic when betting. After a few uneventful hands, he’d announce to me “Dude, this next hand is going to be a good one,” and he’d proceed to double his bet in anticipation of an unreal hand. Now, about half of the time, Dave would be dealt a winning hand and his premonition would pay off.

However, whenever he experienced a small losing streak, he would reach into his wallet, pull out $30, and announce with certainty that it’s “Time to win it all back!” In this scenario, Dave then bets it all on the next hand and unfailingly loses that as well. I watched him lose massive amounts of money quickly using this strategy, known henceforth as the “compounding losses method.”

Friday Afternoon: As is common in Vegas, our particular hotel had a roller coaster. The girls decided to do some shopping that afternoon, and so the dudes opted for some thrill seeking. The four of us stood in line behind a dozen 9-year old boys, waiting to buy tickets for the ride. While in line, Pete and Dave decided that a great deal could be had by purchasing the all-day ride pass instead of individual tickets.

Now, I am usually all about getting a volume discount with my purchase, but it seemed a little excessive to invoke this philosophy on roller coaster rides. When I objected, they attempted to explain the savings I would experience with the all-day pass instead of buying a massive allotment of individual tickets. I finally interrupted them and said, “Look, I understand the savings… I just don’t think we’re going to want to ride this low-budget roller coaster all afternoon.” Dave looked at me like it was Labor Day weekend and I was stonewalling an experience on the Gravitron.

So, I relented. We strapped on our “All-Day-Loser-Pass” bracelets, handed our beers to the ride operator, and proceeded to ride the roller coaster six times in succession. It was kind of extremely pathetic. First off, the roller coaster was called “Speed: The Ride,” apparently attempting to capitalize on the movie franchise from 8 years ago. However, the ride itself had no overt tie-in with the movie. Instead, I think they merely arrived at the most unimaginative name they could think of, essentially settling for a name slightly better than “Fun: The Ride,” or “Eight Bucks: The Ride.”

Anyway, each time the ride would end, we’d race around the turnstiles to get back in line, jockeying for position with the other juveniles wearing the All-Day-Loser-Pass. Sadly, Julie and Jeannette met up with us later that afternoon, and witnessed us still wearing our wristbands. Granted, the girls had never thought of us as paragons of maturity to begin with, but I think they legitimately wondered if our evening plans would somehow include playing with Transformers or having a water balloon fight.

Friday night, approximately 2am: I had been in bed for about a half hour, when a phone call awoke me from my passed-out state. Thinking it was yet another prank call from Bailes, I answered the phone thusly:

Matt (picking up the phone): “Dammit, this better be life or death…”
Hotel Security Guard: “Sir, sorry to bother you, we’ve detained a Mr. Kyle McPherson. He claims to be a member of your party. Do you mind if we escort him up to your room?”
Matt: “Sure, send him up.”

Turns out Krusty had arrived in Vegas a day early, and had tried to contact each of us, but due to the fact that we were in Roaming Territory, none of us bothered to have our cell phones on. So, Krusty made the most of the situation, drinking and gambling for about six hours in the casino. Unfortunately, he was doing all of this without any identification. Eventually, hotel security apprehended him and here we are. As he told me his tale, he rummaged around my hotel room, picking up half empty, lukewarm beers and downing them between pauses in his story. He explained that Maleah would be driving up the next day, and until then, he needed a place to stay for the night.

Being the loyal friend that I am, I immediately sought a place to ditch him. Figuring the janitor’s closet would be locked this time of night, I needed to find the next best alternative. Picking up the phone, I knew just who to call…

Matt: “Hey Julie, how’s it goin’?”
Julie (groggily): “What do you want?” she began, “It’s 2 am!”
Matt: “Krusty arrived here early, he needs a place to sleep. I’m going to drop him off at your place to sleep in Dave’s bed.”

I detected a slight whimper on the other end of the phone, but I hung up before she could protest. Within ten seconds we were pounding on Julie’s door. Krusty greeted Julie with a massive, drunken bear hug and then flopped loudly on Dave’s bed. Julie let out a sigh, and I excused myself, thinking that although it would have meant getting the worst night of sleep in my life, I wish I could have witnessed the sheer hilarity of Dave and Krusty sharing a bed.

Saturday Afternoon: We took to the streets, doing a walking tour of the various hotels on the strip. If you’ve ever been to Vegas, you know that there is a cottage industry for people to stand on street corners and intrusively pass out pornographic advertisements for strippers and hookers to all passersby. Personally, I’m convinced they have the greatest job in the world.

Anyway, after enduring the porn-barrage for several blocks, Dave has an epiphany. He begins collecting the ads from a few individuals as we’re walking. Once he had a healthy stack of pamphlets, he proceeds to redistribute them aggressively back to the peddlers on the sidewalk. Sadly, Dave’s attempt at teaching the porn-pushers a lesson in the Golden Rule (“Distribute pornography to others, as you would like to receive it yourself…) didn’t stick.

How the sexes differ:
Dave and I had just finished one of our many gambling sessions and Julie could tell Dave had lost big. Now the girls on our trip spent very little time gambling, and when they did gamble it was via a nickel-slot machine. Not wanting to embarrass Dave, Julie walked over to me and privately asked me how much he had lost.
Matt (shrugging it off): “About $100 or so…”
Julie and Jeannette had a look of shock.
Julie (putting it in girl-perspective): “That’s like two outfits!”

Since Dave had been losing so much money lately, I decided I would extend a helping hand to allow him to recoup some of his losses. We were standing next to a large potted plant in the Mirage, and I fished out a medium-sized piece of bark from the planter.
Matt: “I’ll give you a dollar if you eat this.”
Dave: “Do I have to swallow it?”
Matt: “Yes.”
Undeterred by this requirement, Dave snatched the bark from my hand, tossed it in his mouth and began pronounced chewing, occasionally opening his mouth to show us the progress he was making.

Krusty walked over, surveyed the scene, watched Dave struggle to swallow the bark, and offered the most classic quote of the entire trip:
Krusty (boasting) : “God, that’s nothing, I’ve eaten ass-loads of wood before.”

So, I paid him the dollar, he walked over to a slot machine and instantly won five dollars. True to form, he then proceeded to sit there and bet it until it was gone…

Saturday Evening: So, with all the free porn we were accumulating, I figured it wise to put it to good use. Julie had foolishly failed to lock down her personal belongings in some sort of safe or armored car. Sensing our opportunity, Krusty and I began stuffing the free porn we’d collected into every nook and cranny of her belongings. Throughout her purse, in the pockets of her clothes, stuffed into her shoes, and filed liberally amongst her study materials was a massive quantity of sleazy pornography. There was something especially satisfying about placing a topless picture of the stripper known as “Jade” in her Business Ethics book. With our handiwork complete, we left the scene praying that she’d get randomly searched by airport security the next morning… (no such luck.)
On a side note, Julie told me that as recently as a month ago, she was still finding pornography amongst her belongings. I had to smile with pride, because it’s rare that a practical joke has that kind of longevity.

For much of the trip, Maleah functioned as Krusty’s portable ATM and financial conscience. You see, Krusty knows how to live it up in Vegas. Drunken sailors marvel at his spending. However, usually on the hour, Krusty would find himself low on cash and immediately seek Maleah.

First, like any loan shark, she would ask the whereabouts of the last $40 she gave him. Knowing the routine, Krusty would recite 2 or 3 various legitimate expenses, (omitting the 20 or 30 frivolous ones) that he had responsibly spent some of the money on. Maleah would roll her eyes, knowing that the three dollars he spent on cab fare and a corndog was significantly dwarfed by the remainder spent on temporary tattoos and having the corndog bronzed into a necklace.

Cruelly, Maleah would ask what he intended to spend the money on. This was a trick question, as there was no possible right answer for Krusty to give. Everyone knows there isn’t a single responsible, worthwhile expenditure in Vegas; it’s like the entire city economy is based on the plot of Brewster’s Millions. (Personal note: Incorporating a reference to a Richard Pryor movie from 1985 is a landmark achievement.)

Eventually Maleah would relent, but as she fished money out of her purse, she would caution Krusty to “spend it wisely.” Of course, Krusty’s definition of conservative spending in Vegas meant that he shouldn’t “hit” on 20 in blackjack. With money in hand, Krusty would head towards the craps table to let it ride on “snake eyes,” while Maleah monitored his winnings, eager to perform the duties of a “repo-man” in case there were assets to be taken.

Saturday Night: Somehow, Pete always managed to be wearing a Mr. T-esque quantity of Mardi Gras beads wherever we went.
I’m pretty sure his daily morning routine went something like this:
1. Shower, get dressed.
2. Brush teeth.
3. Put on 14 strands of Mardi Gras beads.

Anyway, no matter where we went, he would proposition every female we passed with the opportunity to “earn some beads the hard way…” Being completely non-discriminatory, Pete solicited all walks of life, and was particularly insistent with the elderly. Essentially, walking the Strip with Pete was like participating in a never-ending skit from The Man Show.

Now, the entire trip was full of drunken mayhem, but Saturday night definitely will go down in infamy. I won’t go into all the details, mainly because I was too wasted to remember any of them. Anyway, we all stayed out until about three in the morning, and unfortunately had to get up at 6 am to catch a 9 am flight. There was one catch, daylight savings time kicked in that night, meaning we all lost a crucial hour of sleep. So, our three hours of sleep was reduced to two, on the most inopportune night possible. Up until that day, I don’t think I’d ever cursed the concept of daylight savings time.

Sunday Morning: Now, Jace happens to get a little uneasy during airline travel in general, and being extremely hung over with a bunch of jackassy friends doesn’t exactly help the situation. While most of us treat the flight attendants with as much respect as a substitute teacher, Jace is the type of nervous flyer that really takes the flight attendant warnings seriously and follows their instructions closely.

So, just to annoy Jace, Pete would make every attempt to do the exact opposite of whatever the pilot or flight attendant had instructed. His seat was always reclined, seatbelt unbuckled, and his tray was never in the upright, fastened position. During takeoff, he fired up every portable electronic device in his possession. I’m sure he would have disabled a smoking alarm had the opportunity presented itself. All of this behavior literally drove Jace nuts, and several times I witnessed him slugging Pete to make him comply with the flight attendant’s directions. (Moments like this are the genesis of the the term: Dealbreaker…)

Sunday Afternoon: Finally, consider this fair warning to all airline personnel, casino dealers, air marshals, limo drivers, elderly tourists, hotel security guards, roller coaster operators, pit bosses, street corner porn-peddlers, taxi drivers and the general public:

As we disembarked the plane, we said to each other, “We should do this again, real soon!…”

Why is it that the cell phone contract, free CD club or gym membership is the most ironclad agreement in our society? I honestly think I’d have a better chance of breaking a pact with the devil himself than being able to freely opt out of a cell phone contract.

Satan: “In exchange for unlimited night and weekend minutes and a free phone, I demand eternal possession of your soul!”
Consumer: “Well, actually… those terms are more favorable than Verizon’s plan. Sign me up.”

Unfortunately, Satan would be far more reasonable and compassionate than the typical account representative at a cell phone company. These sadistic people actually enjoy telling customers they are locked into their cellular plan for the next decade. If you call to complain about your bill, they offer you a recitation of the fine print of the cell phone contract. Of course, if we wanted to know the contents of the contract, we would have read it as we were signing it in the first place. As a nation of people constantly seeking “do-overs,” these institutions really strike a nerve by making us abide by the ridiculous provisions we’ve foolishly agreed to. To add insult to injury, these industries seem to flaunt the fact that they’ve screwed us, and there’s nothing we can do about it…

The biggest problem with cell phone plans is the numerous restrictions placed on utilizing the “free” minutes included with your plan. For starters, your call has to take place within a narrow, gerrymandered region called your “Home Calling Area.” Naturally, this region is designed to somehow exclude major cities, roadways, and inhabited areas. Also, for good measure, it will usually be localized entirely within another state.

In cell-phone geography, the world can be divided into two regions: the “Home Calling Area” and the “Roaming Area.” If you are brazen enough to go into the uncharted roaming area, all bets are off… Will you get reception? Possibly. Will you be gouged for any calls you make? Definitely. The area designated as roaming territory is a rugged, savage, untamed land. Picture “Lord of the Flies” with spotty cell phone service. Venturing into the roaming area is a brave endeavor, and if you are lucky enough to make it back to your “Home Calling Area” alive, a staggering cell phone bill will be your only reward.

Of course, the premise of a “Home Calling Area” contradicts the whole purpose of the cell phone in general, which is to give enhanced freedom and flexibility in our active lives. Unless your lifestyle is that of a shut-in, or you happen to be among the bedridden or incarcerated members of our society, most of us would tend to venture outside of the “Home Calling Area” on occasion.

It gets worse. Even if you are fortunate enough to be immobilized within your “Home Calling Area,” don’t plan on placing a call to anyone that isn’t a night watchman or working the graveyard shift at a 7-11. You see, only calls made after 9 pm are included in your “free” minutes. So, essentially, to get any value out of your plan, you need to be nocturnal as well. Seriously, is anyone so frugal that they wait until nightfall to suddenly decide to communicate with the outside world? Do these individuals read by moonlight to save on their electric bill?

Anyway, if you happen to be extremely lethargic, especially during daylight hours, then you might have a sliver of satisfaction with your cellular phone plan. Otherwise, you are like the millions of us that pay handsomely for “free” minutes that are pretty much impossible to ever use. While it is tempting to be the cheapskate that calls people at 2am just because it is a free call, most of us choose to incur ridiculous roaming fees and pay for daytime minutes because we all know what will happen if we try to cancel the plan…

Account Representative (feigning sympathy): “I’m sorry sir, you have not fulfilled your ten-year contract agreement, you will be assessed an early cancellation fee.”
Consumer: “Ok… how much is this fee?”
Account Representative (restraining maniacal laughter): “Your regular bill for the duration of the remainder of your contract!! Bwaa Haa Haa Ha Haaaa!!!”

Not to be outdone, the CD clubs like Columbia House and BMG create their own unique headache. In comparison to the cell phone plan, what the CD club lacks in restrictions, it makes up for in endless hassles. Somehow it all looks so good on paper… “14 CD’s for a penny!!! How can I lose!?!” one thinks at the time. Nobody anticipates that this promotion will essentially ruin their life.

Based on your free CD selections, the staff at BMG will determine that your main musical taste happens to be whatever crap they need to liquidate from their warehouse. For the rest of your life, they will continue to send you movie soundtracks from the 80’s, Slash or Tommy Lee’s latest solo album, or anything featuring Shaq. Of course, you have a few days to return these selections, but unless you maintain Unabomber-like regularity to and from the post office, you’ll likely be stuck with a CD library heavily stocked with artists featured in VH1’s “Where Are They Now?”

Sadly, a CD club can destroy friendships and even tear a family apart. How do they do it? By offering a free CD to members that can convince a friend or loved one to join their CD club. The old saying “misery loves company,” was actually coined as their main marketing slogan. Let’s face it, only a depraved sociopath would sell out their family for a free CD. And simply put, anyone who asks you to join their CD club is not a true friend, as this person has pretty much determined that your friendship is worth about 15 dollars.

New, unwitting CD Club member: “Dude, this CD club you convinced me to sign up for is a total rip-off! It’s ruined my life!”
So-Called Friend (shrugging): “Yeah, it happens…”
New CD Club Member: “If you wanted to end our friendship, why couldn’t you just steal my girlfriend or something…”

Finally, the gym membership really takes it to a whole other level. They not only demand that consumers sign an outrageous contract, but also charge them a fee just to do so. Somehow, the gyms and health clubs convince people to pay a “registration fee” in exchange for being stripped of their consumer rights. This is the equivalent of paying a car-jacker for his services.

Shockingly, these “registration fees” are frequently hundreds, sometimes thousands of dollars. It’s really more like joining a cult instead of a gym. When you’re ready to join, they both make you sign over all your worldly possessions to their organization. The next thing you know, “24 Hour Fitness” is a joint owner of your bank account. Finally, both are virtually impossible to extricate oneself from. Although, at least if you wanted to leave the cult it would probably only involve a violent shootout with Federal agents.

Finally, there is a common thread to the cell phone plan, gym membership and CD club: Clearly, we really only have ourselves to blame. However, I’m still going to blame lawyers. The question is, who are these lawyers that can even put together such a loophole-free arrangement? If there’s one thing the legal profession has taught me, it’s that virtually any contractual obligation can be destroyed with semantics, legalese and technicalities. The one exception, of course, is the onerous contracts of cell phone companies…

Prison Inmate: “How’d the hearing go?”
Lawyer: “Well, I got the triple-homicide charges reduced to a jaywalking fine, but, unfortunately, you’re still locked into your Verizon contract through 2008. They just wouldn’t budge… I’m sorry.”
Inmate (dejected): “Is there still time to fire up the electric chair?”