I visited hell yesterday;

Two reasons I like Chuck E. Chesse

1. I can win maximum tickets on the pop-a-shot game, and kids think I'm a real basketball player.

2. Galaga for one token. Give me two bucks and my kids are fine to go crazy for a couple hours.

 

I noticed the same thing when I looked into the nearest Chuck E. Cheese a couple of weeks ago. I didn't go in. Thank God.

 

Somehow, I get the feeling Satan sounds a lot like Collin Cowherd.

 

I had my 8th birthday at Showbiz. Luckily, I did not get hepatitis.

Hopefully, none of you did either.

http://www.wgal.com/news/15664426/detail.html

 

I got mine from Kid Rock, like any self-respecting girl would.

 

Just look at the rat's eyes. They say it all.
They're the eyes of a creature who's saying, "I'm not Chuck E. Cheese. I'm actually a 35-year-old man who scrapes out a living putting this smelly, hot costume on for six hours a day. The other two hours of my shift are spent emptying garbage cans that reek of child vomit. At least, I think it's vomit. This costume hasn't been washed in three years and god knows what kind of fluids and smells are ingrained into my DNA by now. I get punched in the nuts 45 times a day by sugared-up 8-year-olds, and 10 times a day by their liquored up parents. After I leave here at 11 p.m., I'm going to go home and get stinking drunk. It's the only way I can survive the soul-crushing pain of another day in this miserable life. These beans are all I can afford for dinner. Tips are appreciated. A bullet between the eyes, though, would be welcome."

 

solid. damn solid.

awesome. [/Tom Petty]

 

I still love Chuck E. Cheese. I could do without the piss-scented plastic balls in the pool for such balls, but the rest is great.

 

As a teenager I worked at a large amusement park. I'd work double and triple shifts for the extra money, and one of the jobs that would come up every so often for extra shifts was packaging the plastic balls from the giant ball pit to be cleaned.

So for eight hours at a time, I would sit in the pit of plastic orbs stained with ... well, I tried not to think about that ... and load them into giant nylon mesh bags, which presumably then went somewhere to be hosed down.

The things broke-ass teens would do for $3.35 an hour back in the day.

(And yes, I realize this post is like a quote function paradise -- knock yourselves out.)

 

I absolutely love how self-aware the narrator is.

"Your vest needs straightening. Good."

 

I've spent the past 24 hours in Bridgeport, Conn. From what I've seen and experienced so far, it's hell-ish.

 

Bob Ritchie is pissed at you for confusing him with Tommy Lee.

Can't you tell one scruffy rock-n-roller from another?