So, yeah, I haven't posted recently, a point that was made in a somewhat less than subtle way during a discussion of my nuts in the Comments section of the last blog entry. I don't know how my nuts got dragged into all this (and to be honest, getting my nuts dragged anywhere sounds rather painful). Let me just say, though, that of all the people whom I might want to be obsessing about my nuts, those are certainly two I would choose.
But be all that as it may, I have been remiss and - since there is nobody online to chat endlessly with about my nuts or any other topic that might pop up (how's that for an invitation to a ham-handed double entendre?) - I shall remedy the situation forthwith.
Six Now SEVEN Things That Piss Me Off When I Travel By Plane
1. Slobs. Okay people, I know you like to be "comfy" when you travel. I know you're just as cool as the other side of the pillow, and that you don't really care what the rest of the world thinks about how you're dressed. Well, aren't you just all that and a bag of fucking chips?
Now, put on some decent clothes before you go to the goddamn airport to catch a plane.
I'm sorry if this offends your "Hey, I'm free to be me" bullshit philosophy that is just a thinly veiled rationalization for being a lazy-ass slob. But the sweats, the craptastic polyester warm-up suits, the hockey jerseys on anyone above the age of thirteen years? Nuh-uh. Not appropriate in public, first of all, and really not appropriate in a place where civilized people are trying to get from Point A to Point B.
Not saying you have to wear a suit or formal attire. But please, couldn't we do just a little better than the clothes you might wear to clean a stable? And yes, I DO have to look at your raggedy ass, because we're sharing a narrow aluminum tube together and I can't avoid it. Just saying you can be comfortable and still not look like a homeless person. Is that a lot to ask? Mmmkay then.
2. Your Right To Reek Ends Just Before My Nose. This was added thanks to Laura's comment. She makes a valid point, but her good manners cause her to pull up short. Not being encumbered with good manners where these things are concerned, allow me to expand upon her line of thought:
Listen, Bobo. I honestly respect whatever your heritage is. It is a proud and noble heritage, and your civilization goes back milennia, and yadda yadda political correctcakes. But here's the thing: when you get on a plane with 200 other human beings, we're not all gonna share your love of whatever spice is so dominant in your culture's cuisine that most maps have little cartoon smell lines emanating from your borders. Not saying you shouldn't eat what you eat. Just saying "Would it kill you to tone it down a day or so before you end up in the middle seat beside me?"
And I know the above sounds racist, so let me just state for the record that I am an equal opportunity, affirmative action hater when it comes to odours. I am as revolted by the white, middle class businessman who couldn't control his garlic fetish last night as I am by someone from Outer Alphabetolia who reeks from a feast of cinnamon-and-nutmeg goat entrails. I despise the man-scent of fresh gym workout and I loathe the woman-scent of "My Kid Gave Me This Perfume For Mother's Day Four Years Ago and the Quart Container Is Almost Gone".
There are any number of perfectly good products on the market that will minimize your malodorousness ... osity. Altoids, breath strips and other similar products not only keep your breath fresh but have other recreational uses. Deodorant, soap, laundry detergent - all good things. Or even just eating something bland on the day before you know you're going to be jammed into a giant cigar tube with scores of other human beings.
Just remember, we're trying to control the stench, not flavour your existing funk with yet another level of olefactory toxicity. So doing a swan dive into a vat of perfume isn't going to do much more than make you reek like a flower farted.
Look, we all smell. I'm just saying that in a narrow, aluminum tube, personal space is at a premium. I don't get to move away from your funk. So do what you can to control it, and I'll do the same, and maybe we won't both spend the flight gagging.
3. Yeah, Good Call on the Bling, Bitch. Let me take this really slowly for you. You are going to go through a door marked "Security", right? And they will ask you to put all your metal objects and whatnot into a little bin so it can go on a little ride through the pretty machine (we'll get back to that in a moment). With me so far? Good.
Now you are going to be asked to go through a - pay attention now - METAL DETECTOR. And you know what a METAL DETECTOR detects? Cereal? Ooops, no, try again. Water? Nope, I'll give you one more guess. That's right! It detects METAL.
Now, when you got dressed this morning, what did you put on, besides that slightly skanky outfit? Yes! You got it first time! You put on JEWELLERY! And .... careful now, this is where it gets tricky: what is JEWELLERY made from? No, not Jews. I'll just tell you, because clearly this will take forever for you to guess: it is made of METAL.
So really, there is no need to look so surprised when all your skanky-ass phony gold bling makes the metal detector light up like a Christmas tree and everybody behind you has to stand and wait while they pat you down. And no, we don't find this all so very amusing. We hate you, and we secretly wish they would take you into a small room and do a body cavity search, just to see if your head really is stuffed up your ass.
And while we're on the general topic of "Security", here's a li'l update for you: in 2001, some really really bad things happened with airplanes, so they're a leetle more assiduous in checking passengers out now. So that crack security check you went through to board the bus to get to the airport? Yeah, it's a little more rigorous than that.
And please, would you spare us all the stories about how back in the day you used to just drive your car into the airport, park it on the runway, and jump onto a plane as it taxied past? We don't care. It's not like that now. Security is there for a reason, and it's a necessary evil, but it does not have to be as excruciating as your little dog and pony show makes it.
And you know what? The people doing security are just really not into negotiating on the rules. So when they open your overnight bag and say "Ma'am, we can't allow these razor blades on board," please don't debate them. If you want to loudly question how effective your knitting needles would be as a weapon, please step to one side, hand the needles to me, and bend the fuck over.
When they say "No", do us all a favour, wouldja? Just assume that's their final frigging answer, and that you really are not going to get them to change that "No" into "Well, OK, but don't try anything funny, you."
Now, move. We have planes to catch.
4. Boarding the Goddamn Plane You just heard the woman say "In order to facilitate General Boarding, we will be boarding the aircraft by Row Number, beginning with Rows 21 - 33." Your boarding pass says you are in Row 14, but you know if you jump into line, when you get to the front she's probably not going to turn you away and you can get on the plane and out of the departure lounge and have an empty overhead bin for all your stuff.
Know why it pisses the rest of us off when you do that? Because it's selfish, rude, and inconsiderate, you moron.
Because you're going to get to your row and stop, and the line will begin to back up as you open up the overhead bin. Then comes this giant game of Airplane Fucking Tetris while you turn the goddamn Maytag dishwasher you brought on board this way and that way and the other way, trying to find the perfect angle to make it fit in the overhead bin although any idiot looking at it can tell you instantly that there is no fucking chance it will ever go in there.
But will you give up after only five minutes? Nooooo. No way you want to be inconvenienced by having this giant box under the seat in front of you, eating up all your precious goddamn leg room, so you keep flipping it and pushing and grunting and meanwhile, the rest of us are backed up the jetway to the goddamn passenger agent, standing there waiting to get on board our goddamn plane and carry on with our lives. And nobody can move because of you. We all want to play airplane Tetris with YOU. We hate you.
We hate you just as much as we hate the moron who got to the front of the line to board the aircraft and said to the sweet passenger agent who had only moments ago clearly announced that we needed our boarding passes and picture ID to get on the goddamn plane "Oh, really? Again you need to see my picture ID? No kidding? Martha, did I give you my wallet? No? Well, where did I put it? Yes, I checked my pockets. Here, pass me my jacket with the forty zippered/velcro pockets, it's gotta be in one of them ..."
HATE.
5. Hey, Hippy McWaddler - Do You Goddamn Mind? Look, I know what it's like to be overweight. I feel you on it. But dude, seriously, you need to figure out how to get back to the bathroom without brushing your ass against my shoulder when I'm sleeping.
I take an aisle seat. People who travel by plane a lot ALWAYS take aisle seats. We are no longer thrilled by the view. We just want to get there. And if we have to pee in mid-flight, we know what a pain in the ass it is to crawl over people, so we go with the aisle seat. And then we nod off.
And then we wake up, because you had to go to the bathroom and couldn't manage to negotiate the goddamn aisle without rubbing up against us. Look, you were able to get ON the damn aircraft, weren't you? The aisle is just slightly narrower than the width of a standard door. Can you not go through doors without your hips brushing each side?
Of course you can. If you were going through a door that was freshly painted, I bet you'd make it through ten times out of ten without a single paint spot on you. And why? Because you care. It's about you.
But when you waddle your fat ass down to bug the Flight Attendant for just a few more packages of those yummy Roasted Peanuts, do you care that you just hip-checked me out of a dream where I was in a hot tub with Julia Roberts? No, you goddamn don't. I hate you.
6. Hello? We're Here, Goddamn It. MOVE! Do you think they just go on the intercom for fun, these people?
A half hour before we land, we hear "Ladies and Gentlemen, we have commenced our descent into Toronto. The Flight Attendants will be coming around to collect your shitty, next-to-useless headphones and the ten pounds of garbage you have managed to scatter all around yourself."
Ten minutes before we land, we hear "Ladies and Gentlemen, we have started our final approach into Toronto. Please be sure you have your seatbelt fastened securely, your tables and seats in an upright and locked position and all cabin baggage is securely stowed. And for everyone's comfort, if not safety, you can cease and desist with that annoying, excruciatingly loud conversation you have been inflicting on everybody within four rows of you, not to mention your oh-so-unfortunate travelling companion, who clearly wishes he had spent the flight in the cargo hold."
When we land, we feel the BUMP-bumpbump of the undercarriage hitting the runway, then "Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Toronto. Local time is 1:37. For your own safety and for the safety of those around you, please keep your seatbelt fastened until we have arrived at the gate and the Captain has turned off the Seatbelt Sign. Hey, asshole! That means you! If buddy slams on the brakes here, do you really think I want you zinging down the aisle at 30 MPH into my face? Now, do that goddamn belt back up."
So, to review, you have been warned THREE TIMES that we are 1. about to land, 2. about to land really soon, and 3. Oh My God we have just landed. So ... please, tell me: WHY have you not come up with some sort of plan for what happens next, like oh, I don't know, maybe getting your fat ass up and out of the goddamn plane?
Why do I have to stand around in the aisle waiting, watching as the rows in front of you empty out of the goddamn plane and THEN you're all like "What? Ohh, right, we're supposed to ... to ... umm ... to get off! Right! Oh, just a second, I think my dishwasher might be in the overhead bin. Have you seen my wallet, Martha?"
Feel those daggers? That's every frequent flyer behind you, staring at your back. We hate you.
7. Dude. Get your muckers off my suitcase. Yeah, you know the cardboard suitcase you bought from frigging WalMart for $39.95? So did everybody else in the world. So when the luggage comes spilling off the belt, every second suitcase is going to be a black, fabric - covered soft-sided suitcase, virtually indistinguishable from every other black, fabric-covered, soft-sided suitcase.
Ah, but fortunately, we are higher primates. We can foresee that there might be a tiny issue of luggage identification when a hundred similar suitcases are on the merry-go-round. So we are able to put an identifying marker on the one that belongs to us.
Now, if we're idiots, like, oh, say, you ... we rely on the handy name tags that we fill out at the baggage counter and snap onto the handles of suitcases with elastics that we would not trust to restrain a frigging ponytail but oh, for sure it will withstand being juggled by burly baggage handlers and slammed around in the bowels of the airport before being tumbled down a ramp and onto the carousel. And then when every suitcase comes down, you dart forward, stop the suitcase, read the tag, make a cute pouty face, stomp your foot, and wait for the next one.
I lose sleep worrying that you won't actually read the tag, that you'll say "Oh, that one HAS to be mine, it's all black and fabric-covered. Funny I never noticed that huge red plaid luggage tag before. Oh, well." and you'll toddle off with my suitcase and I'll be spending the next three weeks dressing in your craptastic polyester warm-up suits.
Don't touch my suitcase, mmmkay? And if you do, and I wrench it out of your hand, don't even think of giving me a dirty look. I have places to go, things to do, and I just want to get out of this goddamn airport and do them. And you are in my way.
But hey ... have a nice trip. :)
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