Welcome to My Happy Little Ho Garden.

There is a really short list of opportunities that I’ve missed, like the chance to own the website domain name to a site called DiscountStripper.com or the fleeting hope for utter rapture that comes from almost winning a BeeGees lunchbox on eBay. Those chances for total happiness have evaporated like a frat boy belch; I try not to pine for them, but some days it’s all I can do not to drive my car through a crowded McDonald’s for thinking of all the ways I reached out for perfect joy but somehow let it slip through my fingers.

And then… this happens, and the world is right again.

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Yes, that is a bottle of beer that my husband brought me. It’s called Ho Garden. I realize I’m not spelling it right and I’m probably not pronouncing it right, but who gives a shit? I’m holding a bottle of beer called Ho Garden.

Sadly, this beer tastes exactly like what you would expect a product named “Ho Garden” to taste like. It’s like a cross between day-old thong panties and feet, with a little aftertaste of diesel there at the end.

But again, who gives a shit? I’m holding a bottle of Ho Garden! This will NEVER stop being awesome, even after the crotch-and-diesel taste is nothing more than a memory of beers gone by.

Beer and Condoms Make It the Most Magical Place on Earth

See? This creeped you out. I'm not just overreacting.

I just returned from a whirlwind three-day jet set down to Orlando to take the kids to DisneyWorld. This was actually their Christmas present, but it’s one of those things I had to take some time to mentally prepare for. Luckily, this ain’t your Uncle Walt’s DisneyWorld anymore.

For example, they sell condoms in their gift shops.

Yes, my friends, re-read that. You can buy condoms next to the Mouse Ear hats. While, not actually like RIGHT next to the hats. They’re not perverts. I think. Does selling condoms in the gift shops of kiddie Mecca make you a pervert?

Sadly, I’m such a weirdo that it wasn’t the condoms that were the strangest thing I saw. (Incidentally, I bought some condoms just to check them out and no, not everything in DisneyWorld has Mickey Mouse’s face plastered on it. They were just regular Trojans, which was a relief. And now I’m registered on some list somewhere for actually buying condoms in DisneyWorld.) No, the weirdest thing to me was the amount of alcohol just ambling around the park. C’mon, reader, keep up…the alcohol wasn’t wandering around, it was in a glass carried by a bleary-eyed parent. The parent was wandering around, usually towing a screaming child.

The best thing was you could spot the parents from a mile away who were drinking. They were the park guests who were towing a screaming child but WEREN’T losing it themselves. Every time a pint-sized tantrum-beast would get another lungful of air for a great screaming blast, the drinking parents would just turn up that clear plastic cup and drown their sorrows. Since my children are perfect and since I happen to adore all things DisneyWorld, I didn’t feel the need to walk around Epcot with a beer in my little fist; however, my husband kept plying me with Guiness from the Great Britain pavilion just so I would quit running from attraction to attraction, screaming, “Hurry up! This one has a short line!”

I have to freely admit that there are a lot of things in life that are made better by just a smidgeon of $6-per-glass beer. Your child’s second grade school play would go a lot smoother (at least in your mind) if there was an open bar, and ditto PTO meetings. Beer improved things so much in the line for Space Mountain that I think Disney cast members should be rolling you joints just to get you on It’s A Small World.

All in all and every bit of depravity aside, it was a good trip. I had just enough beer to make it all that much more fun, and thanks to the condoms from the gift shop my husband and I won’t be having a surprise baby and naming it Walt.