Good Morning Oh Weary Children, (2005)
Well shit fire my friends, I’m writing this while in Atlanta on a layover and I’m pissed. First off, I’d like to admonish you rookie flyers about a basic act of courtesy. When you’re walking down the aisle in search of your middle seat, TAKE YOUR F—ING BACKPACK OFF and hold it in front of you!
A fat woman who couldn’t find her seat slammed me in the head, and then turned 180 degrees and hit me again. What an idiot! I’m not in a good mood; two hours rest and a raging hangover don’t dovetail with a two-legged flight on separate airlines while bleeding out of my eyes. It’s not easy being Marzuki and I hope your lives remain in the soft breeze of 9 to 5.
My back hurts from the 500 miles of windshield time. I think I’m on the verge of a massive stroke and pray I don’t need an inhaler. I ran out of clean underwear and I’m beginning to chafe from going ‘commando.’ GOD WHAT MISERY!!
I’m now on my second leg back to Denver and things have actually gotten worse! I’m on Delta sitting in 29-E. For those of you not familiar with this row, it’s located at the very back of the plane. It’s to be avoided at all costs!
The furthermost seat has two strikes. First, you can’t recline but the person in front nearly always reclines putting their head in my lap. Secondly; it’s adjacent to the toilets. There’s nothing quite like the smell of jet fuel mixed with blue urinal sauce that goes so well with the dry pretzels served with my coffee.
Christ, here they come; one by one marching down the aisle to use the commode. If you’ve never heard the flush of a jet toilet, it sounds similar to the launching of torpedoes in the old film classic “Run Silent Run Deep;” jettisoning the waste into the vacuous space of 38,000 feet. Have you ever felt something wet hit you on a clear day? There’s your answer. The line never ends nor does the smell. Jeez.
For the two or three of you still reading this sinecure, you thought your lives were tough! HA! “I fart in your general direction” you mother of frogs. Try sitting for three hours on a festering boil that covers a third of your ass!
The little girl one row up has turned ashen and she’s going to blow chunks; shit! It’s too late….shit!
The FAA is going to receive a strongly worded letter from me demanding new regulations be put in place. From now on, children under the age of six will have to be bused. Their crying infringes on what limited space and time we adults have left to us and Lord knows we’ve little of either. They’ve got their entire lives ahead of them!
Is it too much to ask to shove an old rag down their little throats for a couple of hours? God, I know to most of you good people sitting in your cubicles this sounds a little harsh, but trust me on this one; the little brats (at least the ones sitting around me) will be strengthened by the experience.
Thank God the flight is descending into Denver and hopefully, this nightmare will have a decent ending. I’m not holding my breath mind you, as I’m sure my equipment cases have been lost or my car won’t start.
These little bonuses from life’s rich pageant are always welcome at the end of one’s journey, but I’ll hope for the best. It’s good to be home if only for 36 hours. Jeez.