It’s a form of travel that has become a necessity.
Some people find the experience exciting. Jumping on a plane and in a few hours you’re in another part of the country and for the sacrifice of a few more another part of the world. The social butterflies among us love it because of the strangers it allows you to meet. Even the sexual freaks among us love it, because of all the invasive touching by the TSA. Those introverted people like me… well, we hate it.
Those lovely hours of a forced friendship you forge in hopes that it’ll persuade your random seat mate to hopefully aid you if the worst should happen. Knowing fully you’re not about to do the same thing. The re-circulated air that smells of bad breath, passed gas and peanuts; god I hate peanuts. I loathe the man who decided peanuts should be served on a plane.
My recent trip through our “friendly skies” has they are so called, was well… I truly have no words.
For those of you who follow me on Twitter, you got the play by play. For those of you who don’t… here’s a recap.
I arrived to the airport high on Xanax, as always. Forever and always that’s the little blue pill that’s closest to my heart. (Fuck Viagra, I intend on dying before I need it) I checked my bags and went through security to experience the only acceptable legitimate rape one should ever endure. Because hey… despite what Michael Fishman (DJ from Roseanne, Twitter handle @1CandidFish) says about me on Twitter, I’m a true American who is willing to sacrifice his anal cherry for the safety of my fellow travelers. Anyway…
After taking my anal fingering bravely, I proceeded to find the nearest airport bar in hopes of forgetting the 300 pound TSA agent with the magic Mexican fingers. It’s bar stool was little comfort to my sore ass but a shot of whiskey, “Hell yes.”
But in airport land where rape is legitimate, no drink service before noon is still a rule!?
I wish I could say the story got better from here… but it doesn’t. My take off was delayed for twenty minutes to throw a thirteen old boy off the plane for sagging his pants. Which according to the ghetto beauty queen in the “I’d take a beating from Chris Brown” t-shirt next to me was just plain offensive. And the skinhead a few rows in front of me wearing the “Vote Romney” wife beater with the Nazi tattoo’s and the lovely, “Die, Niger, Die” tattoo found it amusing as well. Yes people, he hate’s blacks and says it, but he sure as hell couldn’t spell it. Master Race my ass.
But, despite the best attempt of terrorism any white thirteen year old suburban kid could pull off, and my lovely black flight attendant telling me that “You white people need to lighten up.” after my best attempt to not fly with a racist, we were finally in the air and my problems were over. The elderly Armenian gentleman with IBS and an ass that resembled that of Kim Kardashian, not so much. He proceeded to destroy not one but both of the restrooms on the plane. So not only did we get to enjoy his natural lack of personal hygiene, but we also got to smell his, well let’s call it Kris Humphries, because in all fairness it made two of my fellow passengers long for a bathroom instead of those leaky paper bags they keep in the front seat pocket.
Finally hell was going to be over… after four circles around the airport. Another thirty waiting for a gate and the sweet freedom that comes with living in New York.
Damn, this city smells like Kris Humphries.