It’s 97 degrees with 85 percent humidity.
The two margaritas from the Mexico pavilion mixed with the heat have formed a nice pounding headache.
Likewise, if you just go into the line, you clearly get the hell out of there.
But what’s the cutoff point?
Not a decision I envy.
I would like to speak with the people still waiting in that line without kids, though.
What is going on in your brain?
Big T would be on the next monorail back to the Grand Floridian.
Dreams really do come true.
