Have you ever wondered if your child inherited the awful gambling addiction gene your uncle Rob unfortunately possesses thanks to some Mesopotamian dickhead ancestor that settled every argument with a game of dice? If that’s the sort of thing that keeps you up at night, Chuck E. Cheese’s is the place to put it to the test.
The atmosphere here is insane. It really is Vegas for kids.
I haven’t set foot in one of these places since way back in the day when I thought girls gave you cooties. Now I know better; their real name is STDs. The first thing I found strange was the system they had in place when you walked in. They call it the Kid Check program. They would use some ultraviolet ink to stamp a number on your arm. Then they did the same to the kid you brought with you. That’s correct, they get all 1940s Berlin on your ass and stamp a serial number on your flesh. I noticed when people were leaving, a Chuck E. Cheese
gestapo employee would shine an ultraviolet light on your arm and the arm of any child that was leaving with you.
If you haven’t put these things together in your head yet, it’s basically a pedo-finder. If the number on your arm doesn’t match the number on whatever shitty little kid is walking out with you, congratulations, you’re a pedophile. They use the invisible ink so some 40-year-old dude wearing a cardigan isn’t walking around looking for a sexy kid and scribbling the number on his arm then walking out with him/her.
The atmosphere here is insane. It really is Vegas for kids. They’re games of chance in which you deposit a token and can win tickets which are then redeemable for various prizes. I did the math, and based on winning probabilities it amounts to roughly being $1 for 25 tickets. For 50 tickets you can get a Tootsie Roll. A single fucking Tootsie Roll! At the ridiculous markup involved, I estimate it would take 5,020 tickets to get a hand job from a low-rent Craigslist hooker with a limp. Do you have any idea how many games of ski-ball I have to play for that?
Kids are stupid and terrible at maths, so most of the time they made awful choices.
What I found strange was the dynamic. Most kids had a gambler’s mentality rather than a gamer mentality. The majority of the games yield tickets, however there are certain games that are simply there for the sake of playing a game. Those games were usually taken up by adult males. Instead of seeing little kids playing shooting and racing games, something that’s expected, they were busy playing roulette-like games which aren’t the least bit fun. Drop a token, choose a color, press a button, and a little ball spins around in a color wheel and if it lands on the color you chose you win a specified number of tickets. Kids are stupid and terrible at maths, so most of the time they made awful choices. I had a conversation with one little dude who went ahead and bet me a token he would win the next game of chance. He gambled that he’d win a gamble he was gambling on. He lost, and I absolutely enjoyed taking the token from him. The kid I was chaperoning in this place would barely even speak while he was in “the zone.”
The food. Oh man. Have you ever eaten a pair of Keds from the Marshall’s bargain shoe bin? Has said pair of Keds been tried on by at least eight different people with athlete’s foot? Were the Keds glazed in the sweat of the sweatshop worker that assembled them? No? Have you ever eaten at Chuck E. Cheese? Yes? Then shut the fuck up, you’ve eaten sweaty fungus Keds. When I was about four years old my sister and I were jumping on her bed. We were fooling around, singing/screaming, and above the bed was a ceiling fan spinning about. There was also a large cockroach flying about which we didn’t really notice. That cockroach made contact with the spinning fan and ricocheted directly into my tiny open mouth. The look on my sister’s face was one of shock and disgust, similar to the look most people get when they find out their favorite celebrity decided to become a Scientologist. I don’t remember what it tasted like, but I’m willing to bet my first born son’s undescended testicles that it was better than the pizza at Chuck E. Cheese’s. You would think a fat fucking rat knows a thing or two about tasty mozzarella. You would be wrong.
I mean, look, if you’ve got kids and you love them I suppose there are worse things you can do with them. Institutionalized child gambling probably isn’t the smartest thing you can expose them to, but if they won’t shut the fuck up while you’re trying to watch Dexter murder a biker, perhaps Chuck E. Cheese’s is a good choice. If, on the other hand, you’re like me and have no kids but thought it would be a good idea to mentor someone else’s kid (quick quiz, how many times have I said “fuck” in this review?) then Chuck E. Cheese’s is a place you’re probably better off never visiting. Ever.
People who would enjoy it
People who would not enjoy it
- 8701 SW 124th Ave
- Miami, FL 33183
- (305) 270-8716