On Flying

While waiting for my ride to the air port, I read this about air port check in from tigerwater @ Dependable Renegade, I thought maybe I should just hop a cargo flight to Miami.

Douchemook #1: Yes, I understand you paid a pretty penny for that fine Corinthian leather carry-on bag. That doesn’t mean you should stroke it and pet it and call it “George” while the line behind you multiplies like bunnies fucking. Throw the fucking thing on the conveyor belt; it will be fine. The cow managed to wear it all those years without worrying about being rolled over a few metal bars, so you shouldn’t either.

Okay, now for douchemook #2: yes, you, young bankstress, future Master of the Universe (assuming you can break the glass ceiling – good luck with that). You, with the three carry-on bags and little regard for the fact that there are other passengers on your flight who might need the overhead compartment space. You who were too fucking busy texting to notice that the line was leaving without you, stranding those of us unfortunate enough to be stuck behind you, while you made plans for dinner at some ludicrously expensive restaurant. Fine, I don’t know that the restaurant is expensive, but you were acting like such a entitled twatwaffle that I can only assume the worst.

And just in case you are drinking and/or eating any thing while reading the rest of this, PUT IT DOWN. Asthmatics have your inhalers handy.