Disclaimer: Tonight's blog could offend someone. If you're delicate or easily offended, please, close out of this link and go look at LOL Catz. I will not be lectured by anyone about my views, which are just me talking through some anxiety. I mean, you should all be pretty hearty by now, but just in case... Also, it is noteworthy to mention, I am purposely not going to remove my bra to get comfortable so that I can channel Angry Pony in the best possible way. Girth pressure is the answer.
Okay, so, Shark Bait and I are going to California. We have a family memorial service to attend, but we are also adding a couple of days to the trip to see some friends and do some touristy stuff. This means I have to fly...in an airplane...off the ground...in the sky. I have flown a total of one time in my life. It wasn't that great of an experience, so not really looking forward to doing it again. I mean, it was like 15 years ago. You know what's happened since then? I'll tell you, 9/11, terrorists, depressed pilots and missing planes. And that's just once you get in the air. Never mind the trauma of actually getting on your flight and being strapped into the seat of death and potentially being fat shamed. Never mind you might get a stinky guy next to you. I mean, Shark Bait will be on one side, but who will be on the other? I could be some sort of big guy sandwich. And, what if the guy or gal is chatty? What if? I don't want to talk to a stranger. What if their arm and their leg touch me because they are too fat for their seat, I'm too fat for mine and then it's a sea of cellulite and people think we are conjoined twins? What if I have to go to the bathroom during the flight? What if I can't get out of my seat because I'm the tuna filling in the man sandwich? Or, I make it to the bathroom and my butt gets suctioned into the toilet? You don't know, it could happen. None of you can promise me anything.
What if I get one of those packs of peanuts for an in-flight snack and I can't open them and Shark Bait doesn't have his knife because he can't carry one and then I open it the hard way and peanuts go flying everywhere and then the flight attendant steps on one, slips, she goes down, her tray of drinks goes flying, gets some guy wet, he jumps up yelling, we hit turbulence, he falls on the lap of a pregnant lady, she goes into labor, there is no doctor on the plane, why is there never a doctor when you need one? And then the baby is born, but there are no clean towels because we used them to clean up the mess from the drinks, so we use a blanket, but we don't know where that blanket has been, so now it's not sanitary and the baby could catch a major disease or, at best, a rash. Now the plane has to land in a corn field and then some guy has a heart attack because he never wanted to fly anyway, but he wanted to see his grandson graduate from high school and now all this is stressing him out. Still, no doctor, but some guy that took a CPR class at work 10 years ago jumps on the case, but he can't revive the guy and likely broke one of the guys ribs trying. Now we have a dead guy on the plane and an infected screaming baby and a mom that has a placenta hanging out of her vagina and we are going to land in a corn field. What about that? Anyone think about that?
Now, let's talk about the pilot's state of mind. I think I should be able to talk to the pilot before we go. I need to know what his intentions are. Like, is there going to be a handout with his personal bio and what he likes to do in his spare time? Does he like kids? How does he feel about the middle east? How is his mood? Is he on any medication? When is the last time he had a check-up? How's his blood pressure? Who's checking on this stuff? Does he have a relative on the plane that he wants dead? I have a right to know if I'm flying with Suicide Sam.
Additionally, I'd like to be able to profile everyone. You look shifty, you're out. What's in your backpack? Is that a flask full of battery acid that you are going to put into the ninja flight attendant's eyes so that you can get to Captain Kirk and burn off his face so you can take over the plane and fly us to God knows where and either sink us into the ocean to die a horrible death or take us to some country where no one will ever find us and no one knows about and now we are all your slaves and we have to walk barefoot in the jungle with dangerous snakes to get to the water hole to bring the high priestess of Boonga Boonga some water and coconuts? This is a legitimate question. Or, are you just a terrorist that is going to choose one of us to wear the bomb backpack and blow us all up to show the Americans that you mean business? Look, do I understand that people fly everyday and this stuff is a rarity, not a common occurrence? Sure. But could it happen? Yes. While it might not be likely, as the Rug Doctor likes to say, it could happen.
So, that brings me to what happens to my stuff if I die? Who's caring for my good dog Spanky? WHO? That is a big responsibility to care for the most special dog in the world. Who cares for the ponies? I mean, I don't really have anything of big value. I've got my stuffed pony collection, but no one wants that. So, I guess I'll ask my sister to dispose of stuff she finds in the nightstand, I'll ask my Mom to go through the paperwork and have a big bon fire to destroy all of our personal information. As far as my work stuff, I leave all my desk toys to my Boot Bitches. The unicorn sticker with a middle finger for a horn goes to my boss. And then, I guess, just cremate me. You don't have to do anything special with my ashes really. Maybe spread them around the parking lot at The Glass Palace. I don't know. If you have a service for me, I'd like you all to wear unicorn apparel or pink fuzzy pajamas and to play Somewhere Over the Rainbow by that that Hawaiian guy, IZ. It's my favorite version of that song. And then I would like you to eat chicken wings, mild, not spicy, cupcakes and ice cream. Maybe drink a mudslide in salute to FCD's and how they helped me live life to the fullest (and smoothest). And then someone should say, "That crazy bitch, damn I loved her." I don't care who says it, but if someone could, that'd be swell. Draw straws or something. I'll be watching you from above, so make it believable.
That whole dialogue in my head is what lead to the following conversation with the nurse at my doctor's office over the phone:
Me: "Yes, I forgot to ask the doctor about a prescription for Xanax when I saw her the other day. I'm going to be flying and I'm having a lot of anxiety."
Nurse: "Do you always have anxiety when you fly?"
Me: "I've only flown one time, it sucked, and that was over 15 years ago...you know what's happened since then? 9/11 and terrorism."
Nurse: "Okay...are you considering hurting yourself or taking your life?"
Me: "No, as a matter of fact, I'd like if it no one else took my life either."
Thusly, my prescription is waiting for me at the pharmacy. I'll be taking one...or so, and that should help me enjoy my flight to the fullest. So, if Shark Bait could just handle my beverages and my nuts, I'll just sit there while stinky third seat guy touches my arm with his arm and not give a fuck about a mother trucking thing.
Exits are here....here....and here.... now, about that bra....
Okay, so, Shark Bait and I are going to California. We have a family memorial service to attend, but we are also adding a couple of days to the trip to see some friends and do some touristy stuff. This means I have to fly...in an airplane...off the ground...in the sky. I have flown a total of one time in my life. It wasn't that great of an experience, so not really looking forward to doing it again. I mean, it was like 15 years ago. You know what's happened since then? I'll tell you, 9/11, terrorists, depressed pilots and missing planes. And that's just once you get in the air. Never mind the trauma of actually getting on your flight and being strapped into the seat of death and potentially being fat shamed. Never mind you might get a stinky guy next to you. I mean, Shark Bait will be on one side, but who will be on the other? I could be some sort of big guy sandwich. And, what if the guy or gal is chatty? What if? I don't want to talk to a stranger. What if their arm and their leg touch me because they are too fat for their seat, I'm too fat for mine and then it's a sea of cellulite and people think we are conjoined twins? What if I have to go to the bathroom during the flight? What if I can't get out of my seat because I'm the tuna filling in the man sandwich? Or, I make it to the bathroom and my butt gets suctioned into the toilet? You don't know, it could happen. None of you can promise me anything.
What if I get one of those packs of peanuts for an in-flight snack and I can't open them and Shark Bait doesn't have his knife because he can't carry one and then I open it the hard way and peanuts go flying everywhere and then the flight attendant steps on one, slips, she goes down, her tray of drinks goes flying, gets some guy wet, he jumps up yelling, we hit turbulence, he falls on the lap of a pregnant lady, she goes into labor, there is no doctor on the plane, why is there never a doctor when you need one? And then the baby is born, but there are no clean towels because we used them to clean up the mess from the drinks, so we use a blanket, but we don't know where that blanket has been, so now it's not sanitary and the baby could catch a major disease or, at best, a rash. Now the plane has to land in a corn field and then some guy has a heart attack because he never wanted to fly anyway, but he wanted to see his grandson graduate from high school and now all this is stressing him out. Still, no doctor, but some guy that took a CPR class at work 10 years ago jumps on the case, but he can't revive the guy and likely broke one of the guys ribs trying. Now we have a dead guy on the plane and an infected screaming baby and a mom that has a placenta hanging out of her vagina and we are going to land in a corn field. What about that? Anyone think about that?
Now, let's talk about the pilot's state of mind. I think I should be able to talk to the pilot before we go. I need to know what his intentions are. Like, is there going to be a handout with his personal bio and what he likes to do in his spare time? Does he like kids? How does he feel about the middle east? How is his mood? Is he on any medication? When is the last time he had a check-up? How's his blood pressure? Who's checking on this stuff? Does he have a relative on the plane that he wants dead? I have a right to know if I'm flying with Suicide Sam.
Additionally, I'd like to be able to profile everyone. You look shifty, you're out. What's in your backpack? Is that a flask full of battery acid that you are going to put into the ninja flight attendant's eyes so that you can get to Captain Kirk and burn off his face so you can take over the plane and fly us to God knows where and either sink us into the ocean to die a horrible death or take us to some country where no one will ever find us and no one knows about and now we are all your slaves and we have to walk barefoot in the jungle with dangerous snakes to get to the water hole to bring the high priestess of Boonga Boonga some water and coconuts? This is a legitimate question. Or, are you just a terrorist that is going to choose one of us to wear the bomb backpack and blow us all up to show the Americans that you mean business? Look, do I understand that people fly everyday and this stuff is a rarity, not a common occurrence? Sure. But could it happen? Yes. While it might not be likely, as the Rug Doctor likes to say, it could happen.
So, that brings me to what happens to my stuff if I die? Who's caring for my good dog Spanky? WHO? That is a big responsibility to care for the most special dog in the world. Who cares for the ponies? I mean, I don't really have anything of big value. I've got my stuffed pony collection, but no one wants that. So, I guess I'll ask my sister to dispose of stuff she finds in the nightstand, I'll ask my Mom to go through the paperwork and have a big bon fire to destroy all of our personal information. As far as my work stuff, I leave all my desk toys to my Boot Bitches. The unicorn sticker with a middle finger for a horn goes to my boss. And then, I guess, just cremate me. You don't have to do anything special with my ashes really. Maybe spread them around the parking lot at The Glass Palace. I don't know. If you have a service for me, I'd like you all to wear unicorn apparel or pink fuzzy pajamas and to play Somewhere Over the Rainbow by that that Hawaiian guy, IZ. It's my favorite version of that song. And then I would like you to eat chicken wings, mild, not spicy, cupcakes and ice cream. Maybe drink a mudslide in salute to FCD's and how they helped me live life to the fullest (and smoothest). And then someone should say, "That crazy bitch, damn I loved her." I don't care who says it, but if someone could, that'd be swell. Draw straws or something. I'll be watching you from above, so make it believable.
That whole dialogue in my head is what lead to the following conversation with the nurse at my doctor's office over the phone:
Me: "Yes, I forgot to ask the doctor about a prescription for Xanax when I saw her the other day. I'm going to be flying and I'm having a lot of anxiety."
Nurse: "Do you always have anxiety when you fly?"
Me: "I've only flown one time, it sucked, and that was over 15 years ago...you know what's happened since then? 9/11 and terrorism."
Nurse: "Okay...are you considering hurting yourself or taking your life?"
Me: "No, as a matter of fact, I'd like if it no one else took my life either."
Thusly, my prescription is waiting for me at the pharmacy. I'll be taking one...or so, and that should help me enjoy my flight to the fullest. So, if Shark Bait could just handle my beverages and my nuts, I'll just sit there while stinky third seat guy touches my arm with his arm and not give a fuck about a mother trucking thing.
Exits are here....here....and here.... now, about that bra....
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