This October, indulge in the eerie autumnal splendor of Knott’s Scary Farm Adventure Land and Water Park. All 11 acres of our ranch are as haunted as the Indian burial ground we unknowingly built upon in 1896. You can imagine our embaressment when the bones of Native American leaders resurfaced during the construction of our Super Slide©. But this oversight is a perfect demonstration of how our company can turn a litany of bad business investments into a night of family fun! Each year, on Halloween, you too can witness the spirits of these oppressed people as they terrorize our theme park. And our trademark restaurants are sure to haunt your bowls. In light of Native American tradition, we insist our guests use all parts of the funnel cake.

You’re probably curious about the distasteful press that has been circulating our park of late. If myself, and the rest of the Public Relations team here may speak candidly, we feel that some of these rumors are outlandish to the point of slander! One baby goes missing in our lazy river twenty years ago and the press has a field day. We implore our customers not to overreact; not to throw the baby out with the bathwater if you will.

Yes, we can confirm the deaths of those teenagers last April. But Knott’s Scary Farm considers it no fault of our own that the two chose to copulate in a highly electrical bumper car. Same goes for that groundskeeper who fell into the gaping hole when our caution tape clearly delineates the safest path for pedestrians. If you’re wondering about those first graders who went missing last month-- well, none of them have been confirmed dead. Yes, bits of their hair and fingernails keep turning up in the potpies but our best search parties are on the case! We implore the public to be reasonable: The chances of being taken into the depths of the park by ancient ghosts are truly miniscule.

And while there is some truth to the rumor that that pack of wild dogs maimed an elderly couple last Tuesday, it wasn’t technically on the premises. Yes, we did lose mayor Eric Garcetti last week to a faulty water slide but believe you me, our mechanic received a firm slap on the wrist. And before you go in about our food being linked to early onset Alzheimer's, let me ask you this; what good amusement park doesn’t have a hiccup here and there? You try running an electrical minefield that is also inhabited by angry Native American spirits and not have the occasional 8th grader fall into the gears of a log ride.

So come! Bring your kids! Knott’s Scary Farm Adventure Land and Water Park welcomes you to a night of wholesome horror. For only $80 a head you too can witness what has been regarded as the second most enticing stretch of farmland in Anaheim since the 19th century.

Buy tickets today, if you dare.

I’ve ridden every horse I’ve seen. I can see in the dark. I can read every work of Proust in under an hour and can do so while pleasuring a woman. I leave nothing to be desired in the bedroom. I eat a raw steak once a month at Mastro’s and I never wait for a table. My therapist asks me for advice. I’ve fought in fourteen wars, shaken the hand of 42 presidents, I’ve dined with everyone from Godard to Tony Hawke. I’ve given gonorrhea to whole continents. I’ve seen rivers run red with the blood of my enemies. The Pope once compared me to Christ and I punched him in the face. I’m not like Christ, I’ll never die.

Michelangelo sculpted in my image. I am the Renaissance, a deity. My hair gets thicker with age. I don’t mourn the dead, I pity the living. I’ve cried only once in my life while watching a particularly beautiful sunset. I have one dream every night in which I am the last man on earth thus the richest and the most poor, the strongest and the most weak, both good and evil. I wake up at 7am. I make myself climax with my mind. I’m at work by 8. My company grossed more than Apple within its first year. I make all my assistants learn latin.

At the club I order an Old Fashioned, neat, and think about the human stain that is man. I wait for emotion to be bred out of humanity like body hair on women. When a woman says, “I love you” I say, “I am Lazarus, come from the dead.” When they ask what I find beautiful and I say paintings of falcons.

There is a harp player in the vestibule of my office. HR hired her after too many of my agents had heart attacks. They say that music is calming. Music is the sonic personification of emotion and that disgusts me. You know what I find calming? Order, fear, dominance, Russian Literature. The harp player is a distraction. I throw coins at her when I pass through the lobby.

Her incessant machine is turning the work place into a chapel. The noise like a battering ram beating its way into my office. I imagine bludgeoning the harp player with my awards from MIT. She holds the instrumenting gently but with pride. You know what should be held like that? Assault rifles, Rottweilers, Swiss prostitutes. Not harps. I hate her and I tell her so. Not with words. With my eyes.

The harp player is with me even when she’s not. In the silence of my penthouse I hear the insidious instrument. It’s invaded my head, the inside of my skull a cacophonous amphitheater, a tiny harpist inside. It’s spreading through me, a thawing feeling, like hints of spring. I have the strangest urge to donate to charities and call my mother. I pass a shelter and bring home a kitten. The music only gets louder. The strings laugh at me, wretched hyenas. “You don’t control me. I’m an island!” I punch the granite counter top. I free the kitten into the street.

I tell the harp player she must find a new office to torment. Her ceaseless playing is unraveling me. I haven’t eaten or slept. She quiets her strings and they obey her, the witch. “Would you like to try?” she asks. I don’t talk to women this long without the promise of sex so I leave. It starts up again.

I give the harp player a poisoned beverage and she’s out for 3 days. When she returns she is weak and her music reflects it. The notes are somber, sickly. I feel accomplished and buy a new suit.

I sit court-side at the Lakers game. The heaving athletes make me think of primordial man. Man is made for sport. He is given a grueling task, which he’ll either succeed or fail in. It is not obscured by ostentation or subterfuge. I think of the Coliseum. I think of trench warfare and sip my Old Fashioned. But the panting of men in front of me and roaring crowd go quiet. The game continues but in silence, like a television on mute. And then it begins. Harp music, soft at first but with growing tenacity. Each note lingers in the air, vibrates, it’s laughing again, the strings are being tickled. The celestial music is billowing out of the speakers. It drifts out of the mouths of screaming fans and through the coach’s whistle and from the rubber souled shoes that bounce off the court. The players aren’t playing anymore either, they’re dancing. Not even dancing like you do at the club, they’re dancing on point, ballerinas in jerseys. They’re doing Swan Lake. It’s disgusting. I open my mouth to scream, “prevail, men, we dance for no one!” but only more music comes out. There’s a string quartet in my lungs. The louder I scream, the more angelic it sounds. It’s clouding my vision. I’m no longer sure what thoughts are my own. I try to conjure images of nude women, whaling ships, animal pelts. But all I see when I close my eyes are waterfalls.