This is the little green pot we cook oatmeal in. (photo by L. Rios)
My cousin Lesley has just informed me that two days ago, a kid was killed by the Bat Man ride at Six Flags Over Georgia. He and a friend had sneaked into a restricted area of the park for reasons unknown, when the Bat Man ride swooped down and took his head off. 911 was flooded with phone calls by eyewitnesses. (Apparently there were scads.) The poor kid was from a tiny little coastal town fifty miles East of Augusta. He was part of a church outing.
My cousin Lesley tried to get me to believe that this really happened. But I told her “No way, man. That sounds like an urban legend.” She wanted to believe that it wasn’t true. But she protested, then dutifully went online to get the facts. Turns out it really did happen.
So now we both know it’s true and we’re both depressed, here in the living room, because all we can think about it how sad it would be to be decapitated by the Bat Man ride, or see someone decapitated by the Bat Man ride, or have a kid decapitated by the Bat Man ride on a church outing, or even be from the same tiny town as the guy who got decapitated by the g.d. effing Bat Man ride at Six Flags. It’s all just so horrible.
Anyway, we’re depressed and that’s all there is to it. We’re going to have dinner now and try to act like some kid didn’t get decapitated last weekend while we were out riding our bikes and goofing around and watching The Perfect Storm on dvd, which is an awesome but dumb movie about how, if you battle the sea, the sea will eventually win (Duh.).