They bought their tickets. They knew what they were getting into.
I don’t like to fly. Why should I? Am I the only one who has noticed planes are made of metal (probably lead); they carry hundreds of passengers – many of them lard asses; and their wings don’t even flap? It’s physically impossible for a plane to fly. (I never took physics in school, but even I know that.)
Then there’s the hassle at airport security. Unlike my fellow passengers, I have only two hands and can’t juggle a boarding pass, driver’s license, removing my shoes and watch, opening my overstuffed carryon bag, stripping off my bra and old lady panties, and placing everything in buckets. (Imagine my surprise when everyone from TSA agents to the small child in line behind me informed me my underwear could have stayed on.)
Next comes the waiting. Years ago I would enjoy reading, but these days I can’t seem to focus for long on even the most entertaining of books. I did luck out on this trip with an advanced reader copy (ARC) of Jenny Lawson’s Let’s Pretend This Never Happened. My kind of writer is one who writes a chapter entitled Thanks for the Zombies, Jesus. (NOTE TO JENNY LAWSON: Next time I hang out with Jeni Decker I want you to come along. It’s exhausting embarrassing her all by myself.)
So there I was, sitting in the terminal reading and snorting in a very unbecoming manner (I snort when I laugh out loud) and in my right ear I hear the following:
“Motherfucker! I missed my flight by five fucking minutes!”
I turned to look and the attractive young woman four seats away (although she could have been in the next terminal and I still could have heard her) was talking on her cell phone.
“Fuck! The fucking lines were so fucking long. Then I had to go through the fucking scan. People even let me cut in fucking line, but they were so busy scanning fucking old ladies in fucking wheelchairs that I fucking missed my fucking flight.”
I love how people think using a cell phone makes them soundproof. But I have to admire the fact that she overused the word “fuck” more than an Irish football team. (I didn’t look too closely at her face because I’m so polite, but perhaps the woman was Jenny Lawson who says in her memoir “…Call me ‘that-weird-chick-who-says “fuck”-a-lot…”.
Ms. Fuck-a-Lot finally wound down and I went back to reading until my flight was called. I was practically the last person to board and ended up sitting in the furthest seat back. The wall behind me hid the flight attendants’ work station and the lavatory. I sat on the aisle, while a young dude sat by the window. He immediately slid down the shade thingie, which prevented me from seeing the Grand Canyon so he’s forever a douche bag. The woman slept the entire flight.
Somewhere over Arizona the Captain informed us to expect turbulence (it was more like a hurricane giving birth to a tornado) so he would be turning on the “fasten your seat belts if you want to live sign” and that’s when it started – the parade of passengers getting up to pee.
Talk about your in-flight entertainment! The flight attendant, who was safely strapped in, waited until each one reached him and then he gleefully informed them they would have to return to their seats. (I’m certain he was gleeful because I work in retail which is no different from being a flight attendant, except for the fact their thankless and underpaying jobs occur at 60,000 feet in the air. Both of us spend half our shifts dealing with rude fucktards who won’t listen. I suspect he was imagining them uncomfortably sitting in a pool of their own urine.) Unlike the two people who serve the public, my fellow passengers were not happy.
We landed early thanks to tail winds caused by the turbulence/hurricane/tornado and consequently had to wait in line at the tarmac. This led to the very clear instructions from the Captain to remain in our seats with our seat belts fastened and consequently led to the previous violators, along with several new morons, getting up and heading to the lavatory.
For the record, I will shamelessly ingratiate myself with flight attendants because if there are motherfucking snakes on the motherfucking plane and Samuel L. Jackson isn’t aboard, I want the flight attendant to save me instead of the rude asshole who complains about his drink, the temperature, any delays and/or the freshness of the free (plus $649) peanuts. “This is what you get for not saying “please” and “thank you” you disrespectful old bitch!” I will scream in the face of a blue-haired old lady who will be swallowed whole by an anaconda as the flight attendant carries me out on his/her shoulder.
Twenty minutes after we landed (and approximately twelve minutes after several bladders exploded) the Captain turned off the seat belt sign. The woman sitting next to me had to pee so I told her I’d help her be the first since she didn’t get up during the Force 5 turbulence. I stood up to let her by and then cock-blocked the rest of the crowd. Once again I heard the glee in the flight attendant’s voice as he informed the first of the herd that the lavatory was occupied.
On my return flight to Texas from Vegas we had a stopover in El Paso, Texas. Once we landed, the Captain announced that all the power was out at the airport. Holy shit! Snakes in the airport! Or terrorists! Or aliens! Or somebody didn’t pay the electric bill! Once most of the other passengers disembarked, I made my way back to the lavatory and saw my opportunity to indulge in some private ingratiating with the flight attendant because he also had to tell people to sit the fuck down. (He was a bit more tactful.)
I said, “It really annoys me when other passengers don’t listen to what flight attendants tell them.”
He said, “What?”
I said, “It really annoys me when other passengers don’t listen to what flight attendants tell them.”
He said, “What?”
I started to repeat myself once again, and then I snapped. I started laughing and leaned in to look at his name tag. “What’s your name? Mitch, is it? Well, Mitch you’re an asshole!”
Mitch cracked up. I said, “I mean it, Mitch. You’re a big asshole, I’m a writer and you just made my next blog entry. You know why? Because you’re an asshole.”
I called Mitch an asshole a couple of more times after we landed in San Antonio. And you know what? I’m pretty sure Mitch would save me before he’d save that bitchy old lady and I’d be more than happy to return the favor.
It was a pleasure flying with you Mitch…you asshole.
