My grandpa, Jack, used to take my brother and me to a place on Balboa Island called The FunZone. It had skeeball and a Ferris wheel and junk food. Plus, you got to take the ferry over to the island. It was a great place, and we begged him to take us there each time we visited.

The other day, I was driving down the street, and had one of those moments of vague recognition. Something had caught my eye that hadn’t yet registered fully. Something felt familiar. All of a sudden I was thinking about a ferry ride, and skee ball. Why? I scanned my surroundings. The FUNZONE!! Of course! There was the word, printed clearly on the side of a nearby building. FUNZONE. Man, I hadn’t thought of trips to the FunZone with Papa in a long time.

Then I read the rest of the sign:

Children’s Dental Funzone.

Well. That’s just a huge, giant lie, isn’t it? Not once has a child walked into a dentist’s office, looked around, smelled the horrible toothpaste and thought “Whee! I’m going to beg grandpa to take me here for the rest of my life!” Unless you count the toy chest (and, let’s face it, you don’t), a child wouldn’t find one single aspect of a dentist’s office “fun.” And even if you do count the toy chest, it doesn’t create enough fun to constitute an entire ZONE of it.

And how about those balloons?

I feel like if I open that sliding glass door, 850 undead clowns are going to come flying out, shrieking about oral hygiene. Melty balloon arrangements are not fun. They are off-putting.

Never has a pleasant memory been pushed from my mind so quickly.

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