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My son's birthday party began with me looking like a giant dumbass. Big shocker there. We were in the jubilant 11:15 a.m. Backyardigans parade at the newly remodeled Nick Jr. amusement park in the center of the Mall of America. I was holding the foamy oversized hand of a teenage actor who was dressed as a cuddly moose named Tyrone from the hit kid's cartoon. When the cheery music piped in I couldn't stop myself and decided to do a little jig. As my wife gave me the "you're sleeping on the couch" stare I spastically danced like I'd been hit with defibulator paddles. The teenage actor quickly snatched his big cartoon hand from mine and pranced away. We were there because the blitzkrieg marketing campaign from the good folks at Nickelodeon bombarded my toddler son's brain to the point that even though he had no idea who half the characters were he just had to go. So sue me if I felt like doing a little "Mr. Roboto" with a stuffed moose.

After the parade, my motormouth son told me it would be a good idea if I bought a bunch of tickets for the rides, which I promptly did seeing as it was his birthday. Immediately after I inserted my money and the tickets spit out of the vending machine, he refused to go on any rides. He vehemently denied ever saying that he ever wanted to go on any rides, even though he just finished telling me he did. I felt like I was talking to a midget Bill Clinton. As the neon glare beat down on me and the demonic bubblegum melody to some cartoon song bore into my skull, I felt like telling my beloved son to "grow a pair of testicles and get in the giant inflatable pineapple and bounce around until you barf." But I didn't because, well, I'm not that big of an a-hole.

Truth be told, the food court was far scarier than any ride there. Wild children loaded with sugar and suburban angst burst through the eating area like a toddler insurgency. As I navigated the lanes with my tray of crappy food, kids popped out from behind trash cans and tables, setting off squirts of ketchup and lemonade. Packs of horny teenagers pawed at each other as they loitered around the tables. From every corner I was besieged with tickle fights and grab-ass. My cheeseburger tasted like an old Birkenstock sandle and worst of all, the cheese was wet and cold. How hard is it to melt cheese on a hot burger? In the middle of the nation's biggest indoor shopping mall, it totally felt like a shitty picnic.

After trips to four gift stores (strategically located at every corner of the park) and the Disney store, we walked past the "Hawaii Hermit Crab" kiosk. It took about three seconds before my son decided he really really wanted one. But you can't get just one. Apparently, hermit crabs are social animals and need a companion to share their stupid fake log and plastic coconut shell with. It was chump city from there on out. I bought two crabs, tank, two extra shells, food, extra wood, and bottled water. The genius marketing minds also painted the shells of the hermit crabs to reflect the most popular kid's programs. My son picked the "Batman" and "Lighting McQueen" crabs. Somehow I don't think that when Jacque Cousteau was laying the foundation for the preservation of aquatic life it meant tearing crabs away from their natural seaside environment, shipping them to a shopping mall in Minnesota, and airbrushed to death.

I finally got my kid into the car. There was some gooey resin in his hair from Lord knows what and his eyes were ringed with exhaustion. He was pale and twitchy and after being exposed to the Petri dish that is any kids indoor play area, I assumed he had contacted the bird flu, mad cow disease, and rickets. As I pulled out of the parking lot, he let out a giant yawn and said, "I thought we were going to go on some rides?"

"Next time," I muttered.