I am Clark Griswald; a Wretched Clark Griswald

By Kevin Gibson
September 3, 2009

I wanted badly to punch a moose in the nose. I could hear its damnable voice in my head: “Sorry folks, we're closed for two weeks to clean and repair America's favorite family fun park. Sorryyy ... uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh.”

Perhaps I should start from the beginning.

My friend Laura and I, during a car ride home from a concert in Dayton, Ohio, sometime in 2002, came to realize we were both roller coaster enthusiasts. During that car ride home, we decided we would plan a trip to Kings Island, the theme park just outside Cincinnati, to ride the Racers, the Beast, the Vortex, etc., and relive some moments from our respective youths.

As so often happens in our hectic lives, the trip kept getting put off. Summers came and went, and while we often discussed the trip, we never actually did it. Early in the summer of 2009, we decided this was the year. We carefully planned to make it a day just before Labor Day in the middle of the week, so that there would be minimal distractions from kids or family groups – just us and the roller coasters.

We bought tickets in advance and set out around 7:45 a.m. for our destination in Laura’s Volkswagen Jetta. The trip went smoothly, and as we crossed the bridge into Cincinnati, I noticed she was veering toward I-75.

I said, “Don’t we take I-71?”

She replied, “I don’t know that way, I always go this way.”

OK, I thought. She’s driving; she can take whatever way she feels comfortable with. We were making good time, and there’s nothing wrong with kicking back during a car ride on a beautiful, late-summer day like that one. Not a cloud in the sky, about 78 degrees. Gorgeous.

I told Laura I really needed a pre-emptive bathroom break, though, thanks to the 1,067 ounces of Pepsi I had ingested during the ride. So, we stopped and found a White Castle. I did my business and when I came out Laura was ready with a new cup of coffee to finish the trip.

As we left, she pointed out a rather rough-looking woman walking across the parking lot. “That woman was washing her money in the bathroom.”

Um. What?

Apparently, the woman’s paper money was so disgusting that the employees refused to take it. So Laura had to wait for the woman to wash it in the sink; she never got to use the bathroom. She said she would wait until we got to the park, since we were only 20 or so miles away.

Then we got about six miles from our exit and came across the gigantic parking lot that had gathered on Interstate 75. Traffic – the old arch-enemy of the day-trip traveler. So we sat. Then we crept forward a few feet. Then we sat. Then we moved; inches. We were hundreds of hung-over tortoises cautiously inching their way to nowhere.

We almost went mad. I thought I heard Laura’s bladder scream; on the other hand, at least our money was clean. We did our best to laugh it off, knowing our day of amusement park fun was still before us.

It was nearly 11 a.m., a full three hours after our departure, when we finally came upon Exit 29. We took whatever state road led us the eight miles to the park, feeling rejuvenated. Minutes later we arrived and noticed that the parking lot had only a few cars. I said something intelligent like, “Man, there’s NO one here! We’ll have the place to ourselves!”

We pulled up to the gate, which was chained and locked. A simple blue sign stared at us, mocked us: “Kings Island CLOSED.”

We laughed hysterically.

“Oh my god!” I said, “We’re the Griswalds!”

The good news is that our adventure gave us an excuse to spend the afternoon in the beer garden under the summer sun at the Hofbrau Haus in Newport. Even better, we found The Lord.

Since we are both fairly agnostic, we decided it would be entertaining to listen to Christian talk radio along the way. One evangelist told us that there were three key things to remember to maintain our peace with god; problem is, he never really told us what they were. He would say, “First …” and then he would ramble on endlessly, his logic going in circles. Ten minutes later, he would say, “And second …” Wait – what was the first thing? We’re trying to take notes here, man.

Finally, in the great climax of his on-air sermon – during which he shamelessly pitched his latest book, which describes EXACTLY what Heaven will be like ($13 and shipping is free!) – he finally told us that there is one sure way to fall from grace, to lose your peace with god. He spelled it out for us: “S-I-N.” Thanks. We already knew that one, as well as how to spell it. But thanks. Really.

On the way home we found an XM station called Wretched Radio (you can’t make this stuff up); at one point, the show host was arguing vehemently that there should be no government involvement in religion, and vice versa (I guess he wasn’t aware of that “separation of church and state” thing in the Constitution). He had this caveat, though: “Except for abortion policy. Because that’s just murder.” 

Again, we laughed hysterically.

I looked up the station’s website, if only to try and understand the name. The site says the name is a nod to the lyric in “Amazing Grace” that notes that said grace “saved a wretch like me.” The site states:

“Until a man or woman recognizes that they are indeed wretched, they cannot appreciate the cross. By calling the show ‘Wretched’, it is a constant reminder that we all need a Savior. … Be assured, we did not choose this title to be silly, crass or outlandish.”

Duly noted. You wretch. (That’s my new favorite word.)

As Laura and I, two wretches in paradise, enjoyed poking holes in the wretched statements and theories put forth during the wretched show, however, it dawned on me: What if Laura and I are wrong and the S-I-N guy is right? What happens when we die, if that indeed the case?

“Sorry folks, we're closed to keep Christianity's favorite eternal resting place free of wretched sinners like you. Sorryyy ... uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh.”

Would it hurt my chances if I punch St. Peter in the nose?

E-mail me. Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh.