i d i o t g i r l s . c o m
August 6, 2010
Last week, when I was on a flight from Salt Lake City to Austin to visit some friends, the man seated next to me, who had not uttered one solitary word for the whole hour we had been in each other’s breathing space, suddenly flipped off his seat belt and ran down the aisle toward the front of the plane. It was immediately after the beverage service, so I told myself it was simply because he had to urinate super bad. So bad that he didn’t care that he looked like Hani Hanjour as he catapulted his enormous body, so large that he had to sit sideways in his seat merely to fit, down the aisle toward the cockpit. The need to pee is a powerful motivator; it can rouse you from a wonderful dream in which you are carelessly digging into a ten-pound slice of cake from Cheesecake Factory by yourself; it can drag you away from the last fifteen minutes of Inception; and it can force you to entrust your dinner order to your husband, a man who once misheard the words, “I’ll take the bananas foster” for “Not only does the idea of dessert disgust me, but I am happy to pick up the tab for this meal in which you drank three glasses of wine and got the steak.”
Additionally, despite his clear terrorist behavior, my seatmate’s physique did not reflect jumping over hurdles, eating nothing but roasted goat, and living in caves in Pakistan, which is secretly where Sara Rue and Jennifer Hudson have been holed up. He was actually kinda fat and had a neck tattoo of the sun, which indicated not only loose impulse control regarding processed foods and friend making, but the access to a dirty bar with a cheap tattoo parlor close enough to stumble to before not necessarily blacking out but losing consciousness.
So I was actually happy when my seatmate vanished for a while, only to have the flight attendant take his seat 20 minutes later, lean over and ask me in a whisper what I could tell her about the man who had been sitting there.
After I told her that I didn’t know him, she replied that he had told her that when he was in SLC, he got involved in some drugs an now “the dealers were sitting all around him and were out to get him.” Now, I’m not exactly sure who he was talking about, but drug dealers typically don’t take turns resting their heads and sleeping on each other’s shoulders like the two cute boys with spiky hair sitting in front of me; if the woman across the aisle from us was selling meth bags, she was doing it in between smug chapters of “Eat, Pray, Love” while she was picking at the dead skin on her bare feet; and the middle aged man behind us was clearly too busy trying to hit on the hottie next to him who was half his age to weigh any sort of powdery substance, let alone make change.
And I, by the way, was eating the biscotti cookies I was given and trying to conjure a bout of enough turbulence with my mind power (yes, you can have mind power despite the fact that fractions have the power to make you shriek in the night like a jackal) to coerce my seatmate’s biscotti cookies to slide off his tray and into my purse, so yes, maybe in the snack sense, I probably was out to get him.
As a result of his confession tot the flight attendant, they thought it was in the best interest of the remaining passengers that he was seated up front next to another large man and not the girl in 17D with a fat ass and arthritic knees who was too busy eating her in-flight biscotti cookies to realize that her enormous seatmate was losing his shit and plotting a run for it at 30,000 feet.
The flight attendant continued on to tell me that the authorities would be meeting our plane at the gate, but if the Big Ray of Neck Sunshine returned, I was to alert her immediately. Which, honestly, took a little bit of the enjoyment out of the last bite of my cookie, but I did feel a bit relieved that if my seatmate returned with a knife in his hand as if we were on a Greyhound Bus and he imagined my neck as sweet as a lamb’s, I had a 110 pound blonde size 00 coming to my rescue in her Christian Louboutin knockoffs.
So this is what I’m thinking: I see potential here to make a mint if someone with vision, pockets full of cash and a great insurance policy launches Batshit Airlines where everyone who doesn’t take their lithium or haloperidol on a regular basis can find a seat (and a straight jacket). Hey. I figure if you can x-ray my ass crack to see if I have a stick of dynamite tucked in there, a few questions like “Have you ever slaughtered a family pet?” or “What’s the last thing you’ve seen shape shift?” aren’t that far out of line. Instead of handing out drinks, nurses can dispense sedatives and electroshock treatments when deemed necessary, or even just because. A couple CAT scans of the frontal lobe at the security checkpoint should complete the sorting process, and honestly, if some toddlers with enough endurance to kick the back of my seat for two hours and nine minutes were tossed into the Batshit mix along with their mothers who were too cheap to buy them their own seat, I doubt anyone would complain.
Maybe it’s an unpopular position, but I really don’t care for anyone who can be a character on True Blood sitting anywhere on the same plane I am. You know, I have enough of an issue with a nutjob buying duct tape and a case of Capri Suns who smells like a gigantic wheel of ripened cheese standing behind me in a Safeway line. I don’t want him within a Bad Touch reach of me, let alone a guy whose psychotic ass fat is grazing mine. I don’t need the extra stimulus. Seriously. Pave another road with it. I have enough anxiety worrying if the air blowy thing is pointing far enough away from me that germs from a dirty person can’t land on me, I don’t need to have the additional stress of One is Still Flying Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and Is About to Take a Giant Shit on Your Head. Which He Will Then Attempt To Carry Off the Plane in a Gallon-Sized Baggie.
Batshit Airlines: Where Most of the Turbulence is All in Your Head.
July 22, 2011
So I was just informed that there was such a thing that can block your private parts in X-ray scanners. You know what I’m talking about, the Rapiscan machine that can see thru your clothes in addition to how much saggage my multiple decades, despite preventative measures and expensive body butters, have inflicted on all parts affected by gravity and all the unnecessary time I spent not laying down. I know for a fact that Rapiscan is installed at the Phoenix airport, and since I go to Phoenix a lot, I will eventually be instructed to take a trip through the tunnel of horror, which will not only rip my clothes off faster than a guy just released on parole but I’ll also be STANDING UP. And I get a nice, single serving dose of cancer for an amuse bouche.
I thought for a moment that I would absolutely have to get these little things called Flying Pasties and I was scrambling for my credit card when I suddenly stopped and thought, why and I doing this? TSA, if you want to peek in my pants so badly, go right ahead. If you really need to invade my privacy the way you claim because some goat herder on a flight to Detroit tried to light his weener on fire, you deserve what you get.
And that’s not it.
You really want to see me naked, let’s take this baby all the way. Take a good look, because if it’s so important to get to third base without even buying me any sort of dessert first, preferably chocolate filled or anything on fire, shaving is off the table. If you’re looking for a belly ring, I’ll give you a jelly ring instead. It’s that thing that folds over. And you’ll be getting the bra that has one strap held to the cup with a safety pin because that’s the one that doesn’t dig into my back fat so much. And underwear?
If you’re sure you wanna buy a ticket to no man’s land, get an eyeful. Drink it in, my friend. No, that’s no loincloth, those are the panties that I save for Midol days with the torn waistband and an aggressive stubbornness that OxyClean couldn’t conquer. And yes, that just might be fire shooting at you out of my nipples drawn in Sharpie, and when I turn around, that just might be the words “KISS IT” and an arrow pointing to my ass, which no human eyes have seen since 1994.
Until now.
Enjoy.
And don’t worry. I’ll be back.