—after Joe Wenderoth

June 12th, 2025

Security pulled me into some lady in a cheap suit’s office. Very drab, beige everything. She said you’ve visited the park every day we’ve been open this year. I said that’s right. She asked for my membership card. I handed it to her. She asked who I worked for and I said Wendy’s across the street. She asked what I wanted. I said to go back to the park before lines get crazy. She apologized, left, screamed into a pillow or something and came back with a voucher for free Nebraska steaks all summer long. Other staff are starting to recognize me, and not in a good way. The actors playing the police who gun you down in Junglelandland didn’t even shoot at me today— they just groaned and let me go with the suitcase full of money. I yelled no, man, that’s the wrong song, you’re thinking of the one where the lowlife has a cop brother who forgives his every fuck up! That’s when security pulled me into a different lady in a cheap suit’s office— looks like the same office, though— and got asked what I wanted again. I said for the staff to get their Springsteen right. She said, no, in a larger sense. I said I guess I’m here to learn something about America and God and myself. Then the first lady burst in and asked what I had against America, huh? Huh? Huh? Then the second lady stood and said this guy’s just an enthusiast, he’s not a terrorist. I had talked to a terrorist guy in line a few times this week, but I didn’t tell them that. You don’t meet interesting people at Wendy’s. You meet God in the gray mush of a Frosty. He’s always floating at the top of the cup, lifeless, invisible. You’d be at Bossworld every day, too, if you hated God and America and yourself and the way that the far-off roller coaster screams sound like angry customers— lost, as much as you are, in the wild.