As Marlon Brando in Apocalypse Now, would say “The horror”. Turns out that despite their lofty records of human ethics, deep values and eco-stances, McD’s, Chucky Cheese and every Kids Gym from here to Laos doesn’t clean their ball-pit on a regular basis.
You’re kidding?
Note the deadpan sarcasm in my voice.
As if at the end of every shift, that 20 yr old McDonald’s manager is going down his trusty check list, pausing to show great concern when he sees “Ball Pit: Desanitize” at the end of that list, unchecked.
But true vanguard of humanity he is, he releases the rest of his hardworking (non-English speaking) staff as it’s well past midnight and, rolling up his sleeves gets out his squeeze bottle of Physoderm, his hypo-allergenic cloth and meticulously hand-rubs to shiny perfection and ultimate cleanliness each and every ball in that pit.
God bless. I’m sure Hamburgler’s in Golden Arches Heaven right now, looking down on that manager and making him a little French fry cross to wear.
Right.
Of course they don’t clean the *&^*^%$# pit people, wipe the shake outta your eyes. First off, even the places that have these things refer to them as “pits”.
Or as I like to call them, “ball-spits”. Do the math. Babies, toddlers, kids. Snot. Plastic balls. Get it? Now, quit whining and grow a pair.
If they call them pits, how high up on their to do list can they be? It’s all in the language. Tar Pit. Money Pit. Ball Pit.
The pit-trifecta of human misery. Repeat after me: No One Cleans The Pit. Got that? Otherwise, they wouldn’t call it a pit. They’d call it “A Suite”.
Glad we cleared that up. Now, about what’s been located in these pits like, allegedly, knives, guns, snakes, human remains. Well, just in case you're lighting up your torches, ready to burn McD's to the ground, rest assured the stories about the heroin needle (or the poisonous snakes) in the ball pit are every bit as urban myth as they sound:
http://urbanlegends.about.com/library/blneedle.htm
And feel free to google Kevin Archer+Midland Chronicle which is supposedly the name (and town paper) of the boy who died from a ball-pit heroin needle accident.
Hmmm, no kid named Kevin Archer? No Midland Chronicle? Wanna know why you can’t find the story? Riiiight.
But, should you feel so compelled to hand-search the pit for deadly vipers before your lil one jumps in next time, would you please see if you can find my life while you're in there? I distinctly remember having one, shortly before Ella was born.
I've searched every chocolate chip scone, glazed donut, frozen margarita and iced mochachino I can get my hands on, but I just cannot seem to find it.
From what I vaguely remember, it looks something like this--golf all day Saturday, drinks with Ann that evening, sleep in late Sunday, brunch with Ann, read a book, see an 8pm movie, drinks at home.
Oh, and money everywhere. In every account--checking, savings, I think I may of even had money in an offshore account. May have been the Jersey shore but hey, that's a shore.
Don't get me wrong, I probably won't toss Ella into the plastic-ball-pit-of-communicable-diseases anymore either. But hey, she's just a kid. And if she was gonna get Ebola from plastic balls coated in kid-gunk, pretty sure she woulda had it by now.
So next time I chuck her in there, as a concerned and loving parent you can bet your diaper bag if I hear any child in the ball pit wail in pain, I'll be the first dad over there, digging through balls. Because somewhere in there's my *&^(*^%$! life and it's going to take more than heroin needles, vipers a human skull or kid-crap to keep me from finding it.
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