It has recently struck me the reason I feel drawn to blag, and it’s not only the fact that I enjoy listening to myself babble! In the idiom, “there are those to take pictures and those who make pictures,” I am firmly seeded in the latter end; I’ve gone months on end without ever holding a camera. But you know what? If a picture is worth a thousand words, then I think I would rather write those thousand words: it gives me a chance to add a personal flair which no unedited picture can match.

So, to back up my musings, I bring to you without further ado my account of a thoroughly legendary trip to Canada’s Wonderland!

Since I break the mould often enough as it is, let’s give the tried and true method a shot for once and begin from the beginning. With the weather being extraordinarily fantastic, considering there was fun planned for the day, I set out rather early in order to avoid my usually wanton tardiness. Not thirty seconds before I hop on my bike, I take a call from my dear friend Carl — who will feature prominently in the adventures to be had — explaining that my conclusively not dear friend, Keegan, is hovering near the magic school bus in which we hope to travel into the annals of history. Was this to be the early demise of such a fantastical voyage?

No!

After successfully avoiding both awkward conversation and direct confrontation with the aforementioned, we make our way on the asphalt seas. I have already, at this point, met a couple neat new people — something that looks to become a theme for the day! Not long into some catch up with Carl, his new girlfriend Danielle joins the fray, and it doesn’t take her long to completely floor me; it is impossible to adequately describe how happy I am that Carl, a terminally nice guy, managed to defy the supposed odds to find this gorgeous lass with oodles of personality and successfully woo her (or she him)! I had begun to resent the fact that my choice not to be a complete arse was going to leave me a curse for life, but those two have reaffirmed my faith in humanity.

After what seemed like an instant, in the fashion of dreams, we reach the end of our voyage — but the adventure has only just begun!

We spend a brief spell awaiting some new challengers of Danielle’s: first Michelle, followed post haste by Ryan, Laurence, Siobhan (pr: sheh-vahn, as I recall), Drew, and Alexa. Of course, we immediately end up in quite the debate over the merits of lockers versus the cost-efficiency of carrying one’s bags, as is wont of those newly arrived at Wonderland; then it is time to move on.

For our next trick, we decide to slay the great Behemoth. So, we fight through the legion of its ensnared and make our way with surprising speed to the beast itself and, after a quick lesson in party dynamics and tactical placement, proceed to the roller coaster ride that is fighting the mythic structure. In a snap decision, prompted by my nature as a bard-hearted bastard, I decide to narrate the entire endeavour, to raucous approval — both fairly thematic in the days events.

So, fresh from the heated fervour of battle we make our way towards a more jovial conquest: The Italian J — oh, sorry, that’s Test Drive! Let us give shout outs to the wonders for corporate bureaucracy and the beautiful doublethink which it so lovingly bestows upon us! I digress; this was another artistically narrated undertaking, to be sure, and one in which I dutiful upheld my civic duty to make aware the employees of the fact that their ride was on fire! For some reason they seemed to think I was joking, but at least I’ve done my part. It should be noted that upon exiting the ride — in an orderly fashion — I used my keen, parkour-trained eye to spy a delicious place on which to display my most favouritest hobby to my new compatriots. Needless to say, they enjoyed it quite thoroughly; also, I was likely then appointed the group show-off.

It will be important to know for this next part that I have a hatred for pendulums which grows exponentially with size. As such, when the several storey pendulum ride Psyclone was suggested, I was not precisely elated as much as I was filled with a boiling pot of rage; rage which could only be sated by trickery! So it was that Carl and I unhatched a ploy to make Psyclone think we were going to join in on its wholesale slaughter of all things awesome; then, at the last possible moment, we nimbly ran away like sissy cowards! Take that, Psyclone! I bet it’s going to cry itself to sleep like a huge pendulum baby with abusive parents now. Sucker.

After realizing that these human bodies we share need to consume almost constantly in order to function, we decided to make a pit stop at the local diner immortalized as Coasters: simultaneously the name of an epic testament to human ingenious, thrill-seeking nature and the tiny cork platters on which anal retentive friends and family make you put your delicious drinks to prevent damage to new furniture. Fitting, then, that while waiting in line for food-like commodities I should be subjected to the ramblings in an accent which is simultaneously one of the funniest and most annoying I’ve ever heard: the Minnesotan. The Minnesotan accent to me seems the perfect charicature of the typical American accent. Needless to say I spent my time attempting to both tune this chatter out and keep myself from laughing hysterically.

It’s also noteworthy that I and my comrades manage to resist the urge to engage defenseless children in the arena of honour in order to take their booth in this Coasters. See? We’re good people. And yet, the forces that be decided I should be punished — twice! — in the form of self-mutilation of the inside of my mouth. I was not pleased.

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Stay tuned for Part Two, kids!