Well folks, the House of Mouse has hit the big 7-0. That’s right—Disneyland Resort is celebrating its 70th Anniversary, proving that with enough corporate synergy, artificial joy, and nostalgia-steeped branding, even a theme park can become a religion. And like any good American faith, this one comes with overpriced snacks, emotionally manipulative musicals, and a rodent deity who demands your paycheck in tribute.
The celebration includes a brand-new attraction titled “Walt Disney – A Magical Life,” which is kind of like a Hall of Presidents but with more gaslighting. It’s a touching tribute to the man who gave us princesses with clinically perfect bone structure and a culture-wide Stockholm Syndrome for intellectual property. Of course, they left out the rougher edges of Walt’s legacy—no mention of his anti-union crusades, no archival footage of him chain-smoking while refusing to hire women animators, and absolutely zero acknowledgment that the original plan for EPCOT was essentially corporate feudalism with Goofy as your landlord. Magical, indeed.
Elsewhere in the kingdom, “it’s a small world” has been given a brand new verse—because nothing screams cross-cultural celebration like updating a 1960s fever dream with slightly more palatable stereotypes. The latest addition aims for “global inclusivity” but somehow still feels like being trapped in a diplomatic hostage negotiation with marionettes.
And oh, the merchandise. The 70th Anniversary line dropped harder than Elsa’s emotional walls. There are ears dipped in iridescent trauma, popcorn buckets shaped like dreams deferred, and commemorative pins so sharp they could slice through your savings account. Spirit jerseys emblazoned with “70 Years of Magic” are already clogging Etsy knockoffs. And that’s not even counting the limited-edition churros that now come dusted with edible glitter and generational debt.
The themed food deserves its own therapy session: Dill Whip (yes, pineapple and dill), sparkling blue mac and cheese (we’ve clearly lost control as a species), and a 70-layer cake you’ll need a fast pass just to digest. Because nothing says “magic” like spending $14 on something your digestive system will report to HR.
Let’s not forget the “limited-time entertainment,” which is corporate-speak for “we’re rolling out parades with just enough confetti to cover up the labor violations.” Expect beloved characters in anniversary-themed costumes, dancing in front of pyrotechnics designed to make you cry and spend. Cinderella has a new gown. Mickey’s tuxedo sparkles with diamond guilt. Goofy, as always, is just happy to be included and tragically unpaid for overtime.
Meanwhile, Disney PR is pushing the narrative that this is a “celebration of dreams.” Which, fine. But let’s be honest—those dreams are prepackaged, surgically branded, and available in six collectible sizes, all exclusive to annual passholders. They’re the kind of dreams that scream “buy me” in four-part harmony and then haunt your credit card statement like a vengeful fairy godmother.
But perhaps the most magical thing about this whole affair is how it somehow convinces entire families to spend thousands of dollars to wait in 95-degree lines just for the chance to take a blurry photo with a man in a polyester mouse suit who cannot legally speak.
So here’s to 70 years of carefully curated wonder, to billion-dollar branding disguised as whimsy, and to the undeniable fact that no matter how many times you tell yourself “never again,” you’ll find yourself back at the gate, mouse ears on, wondering how the hell you got suckered in again.
Because Disney doesn’t just sell magic. It sells memory. Manufactured, mass-produced memory with a side of trauma glitter—and we keep lining up for more.
Happy anniversary, Walt. Somewhere in the afterlife, you’re smiling. Probably because even death couldn’t stop the merch machine.