After spending the day romping about Knott’s Berry Farm, my dad thought it would be a fantastic idea to take my sister and I to Knott’s Scary Farm later that night. I was ten, my sister was thirteen, and my dad was a sadistic monster who wanted to see his pussy daughters wet their pants. Or at least that’s how I look back on it now. Since he was buying tickets for Knott’s Scary Farm the night of, they were difficult to come by and pretty expensive. My dad waited in line for god knows how long, shelled out the big bucks, and made it clear to us that our enjoyment at the park had to surpass the amount of time and money he spent getting these tickets.
When the doors opened, my dad practically dragged us in. What you need to know about my father: when he believes something will make a good experience for my sister and I, he makes sure we go through with it, no matter how much we protest. This has resulted in several scarring incidents, including that one time my seven-year-old self sat trembling on the precipice of a 20-foot water slide, crying out to the ride operator, “Please don’t make me do this”; to the operator’s horror my dad shoved me down without a moment’s hesitation. To his credit, the slide turned out to be awesome. He also gave a new meaning to the phrase “I got your back.”
So my dad dragged us into Knott’s Scary Farm, determined to force yet another memorable experience on his offspring. The park was a blur of creepy monsters invading my personal space, pimply teenagers with fear boners, and parents judging the father who brought his sobbing daughters to their personal hell. The final straw that broke my sister’s sanity occurred in the haunted house. In the last room, a mob of actors wearing creepy pig masks and holding chainsaws sniffed out the weakest link (my sister) and followed her as she stumbled blindly towards the exit, snot and tears flying everywhere. As she fled the scene, she repeatedly cried out, “It touched me! It touched me!” even though, as my dad likes to remind her, it’s against policy for the actors to touch the guests. After two hours in line and two hundred dollars worth of tickets, my sister and I lasted thirteen minutes and ten seconds before we ran screaming out the exit. And my dad will never let us forget it. The next hour consisted of my sister and I huddling in the parking lot as my dad tried to sell our barely used tickets to people just arriving. Needless to say, he was very upset. While my dad may have the wrong methods, he certainly packed my childhood full of memorable experiences. Plus, we now have a fantastic tradition every Halloween to sneak up on my sister and make chainsaw noises while oinking like pigs. You know, just to make sure the PTSD stays alive and well.