Here’s a self-indulgent piece that I hope doesn’t come off too much like immature gloating: I was invited to Disneyland’s mysterious Club 33 this month.

For those who aren’t up on their Disneyland knowledge (count yourself lucky, you’re not a horrible nerd), Club 33 is a secret club located in New Orleans Square, right next to The Blue Bayou restaurant. Originally planned to be Walt’s little hang-out (he died shortly before its opening) for entertaining corporate investors and all those cool people that you will never know, Club 33 is now a safe haven for insane people who have a lot of money and don’t mind waiting up to five years only to pony up $10,000 for a single membership.

It’s obvious: The only way I was able to get into this event was most definitely a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend situation. To be specific, my friend Claudia, fresh out of various surgical procedures and still bandagedover roughly 40 percent of her body, got me in with her circle of friends. Also, it’s very, very obvious that, in this situation each and every one of us were in way over our heads and inviting us was probably a really bad idea.

This speculation was immediately confirmed upon entering Club 33. After 20 minutes of sitting outside of the club, pawing at the door like cats, we were rushed into the blood-red lobby and sent upstairs into the dining area, set up for a group of 35, despite the sign above the door that said “Maximum Occupancy: 33.” Claudia, her three friends and I excused ourselves to go hunting for free souvenirs. First and most importantly, we rushed to the bathrooms.

While waiting for the attendant to leave so we can do our childish ransacking, we snatched mounds of official Club 33 paper towels (featuring the Club logo embossed on the front) while simultaneously taking pictures of the pillaging, only to stop for a traditional and ooh-ing and aah-ing at the antique toilet with the pull-string flush mechanism. After using the exclusive facilities for emptying my bladder, I walked back to my table for a little chitchat amongst the group. While exchanging banalities with other excited guests, I gave out awkward signals to Claudia’s friend Jess on when to start stuffing silverware into a backpack. I had only been introduced to Jess an hour beforehand and I was already assisting her with unlawful activities – I knew at that point we would get along just swimmingly for the rest of the day.

Preparing for our feast, James, another one of Claudia’s cohorts, raised his snifter of chilled Evian water and with goofy tongue-in-cheek fashion gave a toast to Walt Disney, which gained a light, but truly sincere applause. I, already halfway through my Rum and Coke (70 percent rum to 30 percent coke – apparently the bartender knew I was coming) raised my glass and gave a toast wholly appropriate for such a situation.

A toast! To truly awkward moments with people you’ve never met before and will never meet again!” Another sip of my Rum and Coke and I found myself quickly adding, “And to post-modern irony.”

After the standing ovation in my head finished (it lasted three minutes and fifteen seconds), we stampeded towards the three buffet tables – one for various salads (which included a salad madeentirely out of meat. Again, apparently they knew I was coming), one with both deli spread and fruits, and finally the dessert tray, which contained four different kinds of sauces ranging from espresso to cherries jubilee. Knowing better than to rush over to the dessert tray in order to bolt down an entire cauldron full of warm caramel sauce, I stuck to a light Mandarin orange and slivered almond salad, a selection of cold cuts, fresh fruit and a pile of delicious meat salad.

After everyone conveniently filed back to their assigned seats and started to dig in, more gentle conversation flowed through the room; how exciting it was to be in such an establishment, the recent release of the latest Pirates of the Caribbean movie, Kiera Knightly’s bosom and how awesome the movie Domino was, which included said bosom. Thinking that I was being quiet enough, I turned to Claudia and said the first thing that came to mind – how the inner child in me wanted to leap on top of the table and start pissing everywhere. “I wouldn’t do that,” said the man at the end of the table, who apparently was both footing the $2,650 bill and looking out for troublemakers. I sunk in my chair just in time for the waiter to replenish my glass of water.

I was fairly buzzed from my Rum and Coke by the time the entrée was set down before me, which shouldn’t come as a surprise considering that I hadn’t eaten for two days prior – not for any particular reason, I had just plum forgotten to. A delicious medium rare sirloin steak and a few paltry vegetables later, I turned to Claudia and thinking that I was at perfect whisper-level uttered, “I’m so full, I feel like one of those dying kids in Africa with distended stomachs. Only it’s because of food and not starvation. This is awesome.” In reality, I was speaking at regular voice level and caused someone to choke on their drink. James, not impressed in the least, was too busy sopping up the bloody remains of his steak dinner with a piece of sourdough bread. God, I wish I had thought of that idea before the waiter took my plate away.

Round three of the buffet madness commenced, and everyone was whisked away to the dessert table, filled with cheesecakes, puddings, macaroons and various high-concept “cute” desserts including the smoretini; graham cracker dust, marshmallows and chocolate sauce dumped into a martini glass, garnished with a wafer and a chocolate piece with the Club 33 logo – a classy, downright manly smore. In a rush to cram as many smoretinis into my face as possible, I almost missed the hostess’ speech, which worked as a closer to the entire event. The history of Club 33 and the significance of our dining area were explained with great detail, like how due to the Watergate scandal, the cameras and microphones that were creepily hidden in every available area were never turned on. Or, if you were to leave your table and keep walking down the corridor, you would find the official Club 33 merchandise cabinet. Yes, for just $60 you too can own an official Club 33 T-Shirt.

Me, being broke due to the cost of the event, managed to walk away with a simple Club 33 pin at the respectable price of $10. And why else buy it other than gloating rights? Yes, while I might always be socially awkward inside, I will now be able to look someone dead in the eye after they ask you the infamous question, “How did you get in?”

And with absolute seriousness, I will simply tell them the truth: “Well it was a very simple process which most anyone can do. First, you have to sacrifice a goat to the almighty God of sun, Ra…”

Tune in next time for more of A Year In Disneyland.