Waterpark Warfare

Waterpark Warfare

aka The Line-Cutter Incident I Didn’t Drown Anyone Over (But Deeply Considered)

I don’t usually keep a tally of humanity’s worst offenses — but if I did, this one would be sandwiched somewhere between “teen food service worker not washing his hands after using the restroom” and “trying to pay a $36 bill in nickels and pennies.”

It started out innocent enough. I’d offered to take my nephew to the local waterpark — give my brother and his wife a little breathing room, let the kid burn off some energy.

Not the giant, overpriced kind of park with wristbands and $17 churros. This was the neighborhood version: Smaller. Hotter. Stickier. Over-chlorinated and under-supervised — a damp, feral slice of childhood chaos and peeling paint.

We were getting tired. We'd spent the day getting baked in the sun while floating along the lazy river, and getting agitated in the human washing machine of a wave pool. The sun was setting and the boy wanted food. Not just any food. The ONLY food in his limited menu vocabulary. We strolled down past the main entrance, past the big pavilion with the main concessions — in search of a lone hot dog.

Not just any hot dog. The only thing my nephew would eat. No burgers. No pizza. No fries. No powdered-sugar monstrosities on a stick. Just a hot dog. Plain. And the only place serving them? A single food trailer at the far end of a crescent-shaped lineup — past the cotton candy, funnel cakes, and hand-cut fries.

The hot dog cart sat perpendicular to the others, awkwardly angled toward the main path. Behind and beside it: an open grassy area with a movie screen and speakers cranked loud enough to cause minor soft tissue damage. It was family movie night and the feature just happened to be my nephew's favorite Pixar blockbuster.

By the time the day settled into dusk and the humidity had built up like the bayou in July, my nephew? Over it. He just wanted food so we could retreat from the sensory hellscape before the meltdown clock hit zero.

As we made our way to the end of the hot dog line, we passed a large group — adults and kids — loitering near the funnel cake trailer. Loud, relaxed, nowhere near the hot dog shack. Did I notice them? Sure. Did I think they were in line? Absolutely not. We kept walking. 

We reached the back of the actual hot dog vendor line — and that’s when I noticed the kid.

Maybe seven or eight. Standing about ten yards in front of us. Alone. Facing away from the movie screen, toward the carnival games — the exact opposite direction of the food trailer line.

Not near the window. Not looking at the shack. Not even facing the same way.

Just… standing there. Zoned out. Like someone forgot to press resume.

Is this child supervised? I wondered. He didn’t look lost. He didn’t look upset — just unplugged. So I didn’t dwell on it.

We turned, settled in, and prepared ourselves for the long wait.

We’d been standing in line for the better part of five minutes, inching forward while my nephew tried to hold it together in the blistering heat and the noise, when the group from the funnel cakes appeared behind us.

And they didn’t line up. They merged.

Slowly. Strategically. Like line-cutting was a competitive sport and they'd qualified for finals. The adults and kids grouped up behind us — no apology, no explanation — just that simmering presence you feel when someone’s standing too close on purpose.

One person in particular stood almost flush with my back. Not brushing. Leaning. Breathing down my neck like sheer proximity might get a hot dog faster. 

I noticed. Of course I noticed. But I had a hungry, overstimulated kid beside me and a well-practiced grip on my patience.

So I didn’t turn around. Didn’t say a word. The line dwindled. Another twenty minutes passed.

Finally, we reached the window. That’s when the move happened.

An elbow. A full-body attempt to slide around me like I’d vanished.

I turned and said, “Excuse me?”

And just like that — the switch flipped.

I was informed that their child had been “holding their spot.” That we “must’ve just walked up.” That I was “being bold and extra.”

I stared for a second. Then answered.

“No. I watched your entire group standing over by the funnel cake trailer when we got here. You weren’t in this line. As slow as this line is moving, your kid had likely been standing there for at least 10 minutes while the line moved ahead. He was nowhere near the back of the line — not looking at the vendor, not acknowledging anyone, not holding anything. You weren’t here. You were over there with the rest of your family getting funnel cakes, while leaving your CHILD unsupervised in a VERY public space where ANYONE could've taken off with him. We were here. YOU WEREN'T.”

They didn’t back off. Instead, they doubled down.

I was “using someone’s issues as an excuse.” That my kid “didn’t look like anything was wrong.” That I was “manipulating the situation.”

And that’s when the filter came off.

“We’ve been here all day. We waited like everyone else. We followed the rules. You don’t get to cut the line and then accuse the people in it of being the problem.”

They still didn’t flinch. They just kept going — louder, smugger, and somehow still convinced they were right.

It was the kind of audacity usually reserved for reality show confessionals or parking lot fistfights. The kind of balldacity you’d expect from an entire MMA team hopped up on pre-workout and poor choices — compressed into one overly confident human with zero self-awareness and a half-baked alibi.

And I stood there. Silent. Steady. Because nothing I said was going to change their behavior — but everything I didn’t let them do reminded them they were dead wrong.

Then I turned to the vendor. Ordered the hot dog. And got myself and my nephew out of there.

Diagnosis:
– Tag-In Line Holder Delusion
– Inflated Entitlement with Portable Victim Complex
– Mouth-First Logic Disorder

Treatment:
Clearly marked queue lines and adult supervision.
One functioning clock.
And a reminder that “present” and “entitled” are not the same thing.

Moral:
If you want a place in line, stand in it.
If you leave it, you lose it.
And if your defense strategy involves rewriting reality while shoving your way past other people’s boundaries —
You're not a victim.
You're just loud… and wrong.

#WaterparkWarfare #Balldacity #LineCutterChronicles #PublicPestilence #AudaciousOutrage #EmotionalSelfControl #EtiquetteMatters