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I Don’t Want To Brag, but I’m the Reason You Can’t Bring a Falcon to Disneyland Anymore

Listen, I know we all have things that we’ve accomplished in our lives and I would never deliberately try to talk down to anyone, even people who don’t have the physical and mental fortitude to master the mighty art of falconry. I’m just saying, I really don’t want to brag or make a big thing about it, but remember how you used to be able to just stroll into Disneyland with a noble hooded falcon on your arm and spend the entire day on the Teacup ride, no matter how many kids were waiting for their turn?

That’s right, I’m the guy that made the Walt Disney Company take notice and put a stop to that. When even guys who let dozens of Goofys sweat to death in those suits think you’re over the line, you know you’ve made a mark on this world.

You probably don’t realize it, because you don’t look like you’d know the difference between a kestrel and a common buzzard if one came and picked you up as a small child and threw you into the river at Critter Country. But yeah, I’m that bitch.

Do you think theme parks just happen to have rules against trained birds of prey? Even if they are wearing fine leather hoods that keep them a sign of dignified, gentlemanly hunting? Hell no, something has to happen first, and that something was me and my boy Windkill.

You would be surprised how many people in the line for Dole Whip assume that the kind of training that empowers a falcon to soar through the air and grasp prey in its deadly talons also enable it to do the same with a delicious cup of icy blended pineapple and non-dairy ice cream.

Yeah, that shit doesn’t happen just by itself. It takes someone with some guts, some gumption and a Believe Magic Key season pass to Disneyland, with a group of bloodthirsty, Dole Whip-addicted falcons in his home. That someone is me.

And if you don’t get out of my goddamn way and let me and my birds into Six Flags Magic Mountain, everyone here is going to have some problems. Especially my falcons.