Flight or Fancy?
“United Airlines, Flight 3807 departing from Newark, New Jersey, now boarding at gate 13D,” drones the monotone female voice over the airport loudspeaker. I take my time getting to my feet, allowing those who are in more of a hurry to crowd up against each other like cattle anxious for the slaughter. One thing I can say about having a doctor as a friend is that I have an endless supply of Xanax for my in-flight enjoyment. It’s the only times I take them too. I’d hate to end up like Tax or any of the countless others I’ve seen in the asylum and become addicted to head pills or painkillers. When I’m 30,000 feet in the air in a cramped metal tube with up to 300 others, it’s better safe than sorry. Besides, it was the only way I could legally get my “privilege” to fly back. Communist fucks, the TSA.
I’m greeted by a pair of Stewardesses as I turn right into the coach seating. I see the Air Marshal sitting in his assigned seat and flip him off, making eye contact. It’s probably not the smartest thing I do on these flights, but it’s always fun to let them know I have them pegged from the start. The dumbfounded looks on their faces is always priceless.
I find seat 13F. I always insist on window seating. Anything else makes me want to punch a kitten. Or a baby. OOH! I wonder if there’ll be one on this flight screeching the entire time Iike there was the last two legs of this journey. I toss my carry-on into the overhead and doff my coat to use as a pillow for the two hour flight. Just as I get sat down, a rather hefty man does the same as quickly as he can. As he seats himself, I get a whiff of the foulest body odor I have ever had the displeasure of experiencing, and I used to road tour with Rage. I do my best to tune it out as we finally enter the air, but any time this jackass moves or anyone shoots past him, I get blessed with the smell of unwashed sweat socks filled with moldy cheese. “Where are you from?” I ask still trying to maintain a modicum of humanity in my voice as my face begins to twitch in protest.
“I’m from Switzerland.” He stuck out his hand. “My name is Hans. Hans Jorgensen.”
Out of sheer reflex, I reluctantly took his hand and shook it as briefly as possible, doing my best to pull the disgust back from my lips. “You smell more like you’re from the bottom of a garbage disposal,” I thought. Or at least I thought I thought it. The look on his face said otherwise. Whichever way I choose to react, this could end badly.
