Nobody who works at Great America ever says much. Bugs Bunny isn’t allowed to talk. And neither is Yosemite Sam or Foghorn Leghorn. The people who work the gyros spit can’t talk. There’s only one spokesman for the entire place, and even she’s not allowed to speak when Whitney Houston sings the national anthem just before the park opens.
“He said he was supposed to be here at ten o’clock,” the man bellowed. “I don’t appreciate that because he goddamn said that he was gonna be here at ten. Well, he can hug my nuts!” The man slammed down the phone.
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Why not?
“Do you mind the park’s policy?”
Foghorn Leghorn walked away, webbed feet slapping against the pavement.
“Urrrrp! Blahhhhh!” A pimply teenager in a T-shirt that read, “Bo Knows Your Mother” spewed in technicolor on the sidewalk by the concession stands. Four workers in Burger King outfits rushed to the scene and began spreading a kitty-litter-like substance.
