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A reader risks grievous bodily harm by sharing her experiences behind the gray door of Club 33, Disneyland's shadowy inner sanctum, where the rich and powerful drink the blood of the gods and bring Beelzebub's infernal reign ever closer:

We met our Disney escort at the art gallery above the Pirates of the Caribbean. He then checked our id's against the guest list and escorted us ever so deftly to the famed door. It's right next to the exit of the Pirate's with a gold 33 engraved on the side of it.

When you walk in, you're greeted by an old fashioned English phone booth and another escort whose waiting to take you up the staircase. Dinner was great, 4 courses, and there's only wine, no cocktails.* Dark, old interior, supposedly was Walt's idea to make it an exclusive club for his other racist, mushroom-eating friends. Thankfully, I got my buzz on enough that I forgot we weren't at a strip club in Vegas as should have been the plan.

Whispers in my family are the membership costs $10,000 a year. No wonder I didn't get that boob job for graduation.

We've tried to contact our reader for some follow-up questions, but we fear she's already incurred the wrath of Eisner. Having scooped out her ovaries with a melon-baller, a dark emissary in a Donald Duck costume will dump her broken body in the shallows of "It's A Small World," and Clubees will be quaffing goblets of her blood within the hour.

*UPDATE: Several Club 33 survivors have informed us that cocktails are indeed served...in the ruby-encrusted skulls of babies!