The Dells

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
Ever been to the Wisconsin Dells? If yes, I'm sorry. If no, please read and you're welcome.

Submitted: October 07, 2014

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Submitted: October 07, 2014



I went to the Wisconsin Dells once.  It was fucking insane.  The whole thing was this combustion of carnies, panhandlers, and conmen.  Everything smelled like urine and Taco Bell, and there was this horrible sea of trailers and RVs, roaming the land like predators on the hunt.  The hotels had the faint aroma of rancid pork, as if the rooms had been renovated from some recommissioned slaughterhouse; their carpets brown from wear, pools of dried semen, spit, and blood.  The toilet paper frayed and the sinks spit rusty, red water that, no matter what, always seemed lukewarm.  Everything consumed you, but nothing satiated you.

At night, along the edges of town, the townsfolk leer at you like mocking clowns, an evil band of bullies all part of the same inside joke.  Who could believe a family would really show their faces in a place like this?  A place like the Dells?

Every two minutes you were reminded that the snack bar was now open or the gift shop was holding a sale.  Everything was for sale in the Dells.  Helpless piles of cash fermented in the back rooms of cheap thrift stores, their owners eager to tell you how great the souvenir penny machines were.  

Nothing made sense, and people paid gladly for it.

There was the constant rumbling of go-karts echoing in the distance; those poor helpless eight year olds so anxious to ride a cracking asphalt track, only to be disappointed by the lawnmower engine and deflated tires.  

Placid, sexy scenery is ruined by the Wendy’s, the Culver’s, the McDonald’s, and Subways—not because of the food, but because of their dangerous shapes of abstraction and what they have come to mean amongst society’s stunted landscapes.  The people steer their ships in the direction of light, but the light only fades, and they find themselves surrounded by the loud, farting engines of rusty RVs.

You leave the Dells with no real memories, only the lingering sense of regret.  Childlike wonder is cast aside like a forgotten toy.  The children scream, though I have no idea if they are screams of joy or screams of horror.  

The Dells is the poor man’s Vegas: there are no hookers, blow, sex, violence, mystique, or allure.  There are sounds, and lights, and sensory overload, but it’s all a muddled display of perfect nonsense.  There is booze, however.  I suppose that much is true.  But the booze’s cheap, pissy taste is worse than that rusty water.  

This place leads the people astray until their pockets are empty and their rusty trailers squeak meekly home. 

It is a carousel of fuck and the madness never stops.


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