I had to fly for work recently. To Orlando. Home of one of the Disney places. In all the rush of packing, planning and life in general I forgot until I got to the airport one thing – children like going to see the mouse. I got on the plane and a girl was screaming. Not happy, not unhappy, just plain screaming while her parents did nothing. When I say nothing, I mean I don’t even think they blinked. It was impressive and maddening. I quickly ordered a bourbon and was rewarded with white rum. Getting white rum when you ask for bourbon is like asking for a steak and getting a handful of Taco Bell meat. Then the cabin pressure changed and an older boy began wailing that his ears hurt. For 15 straight minutes. Now all our ears hurt, Jimmy. Misery loves company.
On the way back, there were less children, which is not good. Why? More adults, that’s why. I got the next to last seat and had to cram between a woman with a half shaved head and a very large woman, who had no issue with spreading her mass into my tiny personal space. I fell asleep for about ten minutes; the ten minutes that they brought drinks out. I awoke, parched as a traveler lost in the desert. Unable to reach my bag, thanks to the lady spilling so far into my seat I couldn’t bend over without groping her right half, I had to resort to doing the plane’s crossword puzzle, which was worsened by the fact it had already been completed before I started, oh that, and my piercing thirst.
Mercifully, it was all over and I vowed to make my own wings, like the crafty Daedalus. I think he was inspired by the first Greek airline, which had been such an unpleasant experience before showers and deodorant, that it has been erased from history. Make my own wings, it is.