As I mentioned, I was in fact going to the beach. I know that probably confused many of you, as you assume sunlight would in fact cause me to burst into flames. Even assholes need vacations, and so I visited South Florida.
I could talk about the douchebaggery that runs rampant on Ft Lauderdale beach during the 4th of July. I could talk about the strange and unsettling new fasion of men wearing their shorts and swim suits far FAR below the appropriate point. I could talk about sun burns and drunken frat boys, but oh no. Despite the hatred I may have of all these things, nothing comes close to my anger, my rage, my homicidal and justifiable fury for... air travel.
So tonight, I will rant. I will rant because if I don't I may come that much closer to indulging in the psychotic fantasies that bounce around in this sick skull of mine. But where to start? The glorified security attendants on power trips trying to overcompensate for the fact that their position is somewhere between stewardess and the guy making hot dogs in the terminal? Or should I talk about the fat republican pricks in suits that think the airplane is their personal office, and have the fucking nerve to tell me my ipod is in the way of their laptop, newspaper, cell phone, and trendy grande mocha fucking latte? No, no...if there's one prick imparticular that twists my nuts more than any other it's the mother fucking pilot.
First, let's remember that he is a pilot. He's not a captain. He's not in the airforce or police department. He's a fucking pilot and he should be glad to have that title.
And why is it that all of these pilots seem to have a serious speech impediment? "Ahhhh.....we're going to be taking off shortly and...ahhhhhh....then we're going to fly around a bit and...ahhhhhhhhhhhhh..then probably land. Hopefully on a runway." Because it's those corn field and elementary school landings you really have to watch out for. Is he getting a fucking BJ from one of those flight attendents? Is that why I can never get one to bring me a goddamn vodka?
For one thing...is his speech really so different for every flight that he can't have this shit somewhat memorized? "Thank you for flying ________. Today we'll be flying from ______ to ______ and we may have some turbulance that makes you start praying to gods you've never believed in just so that you won't die amidst the inbred mildly retarded sons of bitches you're sitting next to." Same shit. Every flight. No need to steer from the standard. Is it really that hard? Do you really need to make like a Junior High class president that mixed up his cue cards? That fact that you are unable to put nouns and verbs together into sentences does not fill me with confidence as to your ability to fly a commercial airliner.
But that's okay. I need not worry. Even if this linguistics genius isn't able to keep the plane aloft, I'll be fine. How do I know that? Because I paid close attention to the stewardess giving the safety instructions before takeoff. I know where the exit rows are. I know that my seat cusion can be used as a floatation device. I also know that if the cabin should become depressurized a jock-strap will come down from the ceiling and I'll be able to breath. But what if the bag doesn't inflate? That's okay, because air is still flowing even if the bag doesn't inflate.
So since I'm completely relaxed to a nearly zen-like state of calmness and clarity, I can lay back and enjoy the trip. As long as by "laying back" I am content to go from 90 degrees to 94 degrees. Why do the seats even pretend they recline? If you bought a lazy boy recliner, and it reclined by 4 degrees, you would shoot someone in the face. It's bullshit, and it goes to bullshit levels.
Some of you are probably thinking "Aww, c'mon... planes aren't so bad..." And for you that may be true. But you are not me, and I am not the person these planes are built for.
Let me explain... I'll make this a really clear picture:
You know how sometimes you get on the plane a little early, and you're watching everyone else file through the aisle after you? We all think the same thing at this point, "Hey! Maybe it's not a full flight! Maybe nobody will sit next to me, and I can use that extra empty seat like my own personal desk and buffet table!" I know, I think it too. But there's also the realistic side of your brain that says, "SOME FUCKER IS GOING TO SIT HERE! I just hope it's not an ugly person, or a fat person, or a fat ugly person, or an old person, or someone that looks like they might talk alot, or someone that might snore really fucking loud..."
So you watch the people filing down the aisle, and you start picking out who you hope sits there, and who you REALLY hope DOESN'T sit there.
"Okay, skinny little blond girl. That would be great. She's got some clevage showing and might be intoxicated enough to get me into that special airplane club. Worst case she passes out and I can stare drunkenly down her shirt. Oh shit, not that guy... his hair is matted in clumps and he's wearing his underwear on the outside of his pants..." As the attractive girl passes and the smelly man sits elsewhere, you start weighing your options.
"That guy's practically a midget. I hope he sits here! He could probably just curl up under the seat!" Be wary of the elderly women. They are small so physically they work well for air travel, but when you're trying to sleep, read, or mentally masturbate about the blonde, the old woman will be showing you pictures of her cat and telling you about her last trip to Hoboken. 3 hours of that is worse than the underwear guy.
Then you see me, and you think, "no...no...please...no..." I start to slow down, and you see me reading the seat numbers. I'm closing in on you. "FUCK!"
Why? Because I'm a big tall loud fucker that looks like he could be incredibly flatulant. The only thing worse than hearing about Fluffy's hairball for the duration of the trip is having to sniff beer farts. Although in my experience, old women are incredibly more gassy than me. Although you could probably knock off her glasses and steal some nice glacoma meds out of her purse, so there's a silver lining to everything. That's me, the everlasting optimist.
So after 2 flights, 9 mini-beverages, 4 cramped legs, and 1 less lighter, I am home. And godbless this place too.
As always, love, peace, and train rides for you all.
I remain,
- G