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Birdies, Eagles and the Mouse

The next day, Mickey himself delivers the news: "Up and at 'em, pal! Ooooh boy, are we glad you're here. Big doin's goin' on, so let's get started!" It's my wake-up call in his grating falsetto.

Little rat. Walt Disney World is not the sort of place to be hungover, or grouchy, or in the throes of a marital Armageddon, or sick of your children. Trained as "messengers of the magic," the Disney staff is prepared for the dark side. "Goooood morning!" says a doorman dressed in--I don't know what--antebellum chic?

"Umh," I respond, dodging his smile.

"Uh-oh," he persists. "Let's get you a coffee," which he does. "What did you do last night?"

"Went dancing."

"Where are you off to now?"

"Play golf."

"Well now, that's not such a bad life, is it?"

I realize that once again I've been duped in a world where being delusional is, strangely, the point.


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