The Cavern

"You know there are 7 secret levels below us don't you? It's where they keep the secret security offices, and store the popcorn."

Yes, I'd heard that before. Everyone who grows up down there hears about the secret underground levels all the time. It's popular conversation while standing in line for Space Mountain or the Jungle Boat.

She had long brown hair, green eyes, and shiny glossy lips that smelled of strawberry. So, I listened intently and acted surprised. I was 14. She probably was too, and we were standing in line for the Matterhorn.

We waited with others from our group, a motley hodgepodge of sweaty teens, dowsed in varying doses of hairspray, cologne and hormones, roaming the Magic Kingdom for a day. The Matterhorn was an in-line toboggan ride. Strictly boy-girl-boy-girl, nestled between each other's legs. That is what awaited us at the end of that impossibly slow-moving line.

And we all knew it...

Finally, a fair-haired boy in lederhosen led us to our alpine bobsled of love. Strawberry wasted no time planting herself between my knees. An unfortunate doofus with a large forehead and tacky jacket shared the compartment behind ours with his obnoxious girlfriend. We overheard their whispered negotiations. He was apparently allowed to put his hands inside her shirt, but only after the ride started. Oh, but, he wasn't allowed to undo her bra.

The the track brakes released with a pneumatic woosh, and we were underway. The toboggan slipped slowly into the first cave with that smooth precision only Disney engineers can create. Once in the dark, I immediately detected the distinct sound of tongue kissing behind me. Strawberry wiggled subtly against my thighs, while my hand migrated slowly from the hand rail to her outer perimeter.

CLACK CLAcK CLACK CLACK CLACK... The romantic reverie was broken by the jarring jerking chain lift elevating our cars up out of the darkness, up above the park, up toward the fake snow-packed summit. We were released again and glided smoothly, only to be caught quickly by the second stretch of chain lift.

Motorized mountain goats blinked at us, and distant screams of exhilaration were heard echoing through the mountain. Once we reached the top, the cart was set free , and we began our high-speed hurtle through icy caverns back toward ground level.

Dashing alternately through darkness and light, we hugged the outside rails, then dipped back into an tinkling ice cave. Blue-white crystals flashed past us, while bursts of tinkly tinkly music completed the effect. We rounded the curve in the cavern and came to a rather sudden and completely unexpected stop.

Seems we were stuck.

Seems the whole ride was stuck.

Something somewhere broke, and all of the sleds were stopped. A friendly yet authoritative voice told us so. It also told us to stay in the toboggan and someone would get us.

Get us? Well, yes, but not for about 45 minutes, and not all of the strawberry-scented sexiness in the world was enough to get the never-ending tinkle tinkle tinkle tinkle out of my head.

Just when I thought I couldn't take it anymore, the ice wall to my right opened, and two foxy blonde girls with green lederhosen and tan legs stepped out to greet us.

"Come this way." they instructed.

Bewildered, and reeling from the artificial ice-noise, we climbed out of the sled and followed the tight-bloused girls into the well-concealed freight elevator.

Down, down we descended into the bowels of the Matterhorn. Down through the secret levels. The work shop. The toboggan lot. The break room. The lockerroom. Down to the bottom. Down, below the mountain. Down to the underground hallways.

That was as much of the grand tour that they wanted to provide, and we were whisked briskly back into the daylight. However, I had seen enough.

I had seen behind the Mouse's veil. I was shown things most people will never see. I saw what I never thought I would see.

Which is how I felt this afternoon.

Following the media frenzy, I delved not-so-deeply into the undercurrents of the blogosphere to seek out the un-edited photos. Without much effort, I found them.

All of them.

In the background, I saw the familiar smarmy smirk of Paris Hilton. She sat in a car, seemingly stewing in sweat and semen, swilling one more for the road. Paris was waiting for her new best friend to swing away from the paparazzi, and get back into the car. There was more binge-drinking to be done, and she wanted to go.

In the foreground, was Paris's new best friend, Britney. She was dressed for a night on the town, wearing a tight-fitting black cocktail dress. She was awkwardly posing for the publicity pictures, feiging a candid moment, she overcalculated her sneak peek, and hiked the hem of her skirt way way way up her hips.

And there, in the focal point, what I never thought I'd see, what I never even really desired to see, was the clean-shaven somewhat-saggy panty-less winking vagina of Britney Spears.

The mysteries of one more dark cavern revealed. Oh, and, that tinkly ice-cave music music you hear is probably her latest release.