….maybe…kinda…sorta. I think this may be laden with flashbacks, so the whole real-time feel may be diluted just a bit. But in the spirit of a diary…(oh, and as it turns out, this gotten eaten up somehow so while it was written in real time, I didn’t get posted until I finally returned home)
I am now five pints of Bass Ale in (well, four pints of Bass and one pint of Samuel Adams because my Pat Benatar look-alike waitress might be high on paint fumes right now). Currently, I am sitting in an airport in Boston waiting for my already delayed plane to arrive to take me back to my tremendously missed home. This has been, quite possibly, the longest three days of my life…let me reacap…
Midwest Airlines still sucks (see my post about a trip to NYC). The stewardesses (flight attendant is too kind) suck. They are rude and slow and who the fuck thinks a shot of Pepsi is going to quench my thirst..
Hold one, let me break in here. The poor girl sitting next to us ordered a Caesar salad. She tells Pat Benatar, “my plane is boarding, I need to go.” So apparently Pat has never missed a flight in her life. She proceeds to chat with this poor girl and tells her she is going to get her a box. The girl relents and allows Pat to bring her a box. A box is brought, and Pat continues to chit chat as if she is trying to keep my poor table neighbor from making her flight. Maybe she gets off on it…and if she does, maybe she should get a vibrator instead.
Back on point. Yes, yes, Midwest, they suck. On the flight here I was in the very back row, and of course, the leg room shrinks the further you get back in the plane. Couple this with the fact that I always get stuck next to the dude that has 10 mile legs and feels compelled to stretch out like a cat afflicted with rigor and my experience was less than pleasant.
The rest of the week has been okay. Oddly enough, the hotels in Arkansas are nicer than the Marriott I am staying at here, and having a room next to the pool is not very appealing. Chlorine permeated the room, which really bothered me at first, but then I thought “I’ll just smoke in my room to get rid of the smell.” No harm no foul I suppose. The Bostonian accent was mildly endearing at first, but has really become like nails on the chalkboard in the last six hours. Do these people realize how fucking retarded they sound? Important note: there are consonants at the end of works such as bar and car and retard. Just so you know.
Our driver to the airport was straight out of the book of stereotypes. Greek. Long hair in a ponytail. Thick accent. Talked more than teenager on a bag of pop rocks and crack. It was lovely. He told us all about his cycling days. Got to hear about steroids and the effect on his now sterile genitalia. Also got to hear about MDMA in the 80’s and how “no girl could say no when you got them high on Ecstasy.” My poor co-worker, I pretended like I was asleep.
I met Mitt Romney in the security line. I thought about asking him about what it’s like to be Mormon, or what it was like to get the shit kicked out of him in the primaries, but he seemed like a nice enough fellow so I refrained.
My flight continues to be delayed. It took Johnny Rockets 40 minutes to get me a fucking burger. Somehow my ticket ended up on the floor. I am now actively wondering if my plane is going to crash. If it does, and someone reads this, please give all of my Star Wars toys to…well, nobody. I want to be buried with them. Please and thank you.
I think at this point I could probably go on a cussing spree. The word “fuck” is on the tip of my lips and therefore on the tip of my fingers and fighting the urge to repeatedly scream fuck is worse than fighting the urge to stick my penis in an electric pencil sharpener. Where’s the lube?
On a quick side note, why can’t people fucking understand that I don’t like seafood? When you tell someone you don’t like meat that has been soaking in human polluted water, they look at you like you just raped a cat. Fuck off people. Fish tastes like fish and fish tastes gross and if you want to suck on some water-borne creature and call it food, by all means, but don’t make me feel like a feline rapist because I don’t.
Diary, I think it’s time for one more smoke. I have plenty more to say about this little jaunt to Boston, but I think I’ll save it for more sober times, and for a time when I don’t feel like jamming a pen in my eye. Peace out Diary and we’ll see you back home.
There are only two reasons to sit in the back row of an airplane: either you have diarrhea or you’re anxious to meet people who do.