What is with Jewish mothers and their obsession with getting to the airport four hours before a flight? I woke up to my mother hollering at me, “ARIEEELLL!!! ARIEEELLLL!!!!!” and even though I asked her to wake me up in the morning, I didn’t expect her to act like a mad rooster. Hearing her in distress like that caused me to panic. At first I thought my dog ran away, or there was a small fire, or that I had overslept and missed the flight–but no, my mother simply wanted to know what time to call in for a taxi.
“Ummmm, tell them to come at 8:30, mom.”
“No,” she quacked “You have to get it earlier.”
“Okay, 8:15 then.”
“No, dis is still too late.”
“Why did you ask me what time to order a cab if you’re just gonna decide anyway?”
“I tell dem to come at 8:00.”
“Mom, don’t worry, I’m calling them now.”
I waited until my mother went back to the kitchen and couldn’t hear my voice. I dialed the taxi company and requested a cab for 8:10 a.m. And I did so silently, as so my mother wouldn’t hear that I pushed it back ten minutes.
I forgot to mention my girlfriend is with me. We’re heading to Fort Lauderdale together. I was a little frustrated and irritable in the morning, and she thought it was because of my mother and anxiousness before the flight (I do happen to be a nervous flyer), but it had nothing to do with either.
Last night, I was playing my Super Nintendo until 2:00 a.m. and couldn’t beat King Bowser. How is it that Bowser, the fattest fuck of ‘em all, always manages to bump me out of the way on the last lap and take the win? He’s by far the slowest driver when I select him, but when I’m opposing him, he dominates me. Long live the King, I guess. I’ll be back from Florida in nine days–watch your back, fatass.
The cabbie drops us off at Logan. $50, including tip, for a 20-minute drive. Barely three miles closer to Florida, and the vacation spending is already ridiculous. We approach the check-in line and notice our friend is working the desk. Worked out great because she dismissed all the extra charges. This Spirit Airlines charges for everything–luggage, carry ons, they even charge for water on the flight. Heck, at that point, I was expecting to put a down payment for napkins. Had it not been for that Airport employee being a good friend, we would have spent an extra $160.
Fearing there might be a bathroom toll on the flight, I decided to excrete in the airport. With a metal finish, great ventilation, this airport bathroom belonged in a sci-fi flick. Just one problem, yet adding to the futuristic aura: the automatic stalls. The automatic toilet doesn’t allow for a courtesy flush—it only flushes when you leave the seat. And even it happens to have a backup flush-button, it’s rarely in a convenient spot and you’d have to contort your body to press it because it’s almost impossible to reach while you’re sitting. But this courtesy flush philosophy of mine mainly applies to work and home, not around people I don’t care about. Unless of course, the guy sitting in the stall next to me is exposed to the foulness of the sounds and smells of my being, and then ends up on the same flight as me. Then, we got problems. You can forget about networking with that guy.
The flight is boarding, and the panic is rising. Normally when I fly, it’s to Israel. There’s usually 1-2 layovers, which is twice as many take-offs and landings that I care to endure. Taking off is epically scary for me; landing is a little less.
Knowing there aren’t any layovers on this flight to Florida is about the only thing keeping my brain from going in meltdown mode. What’s worse, as I read the drink menu on the flight, I see the price of alcohol and beer—hell no, I’m not buying a five-ounce beer for $6. Go fuck yourself, Spirit Airlines. So, not only do I have no booze to soothe my pain with, I’m further angered by the exorbitant cost of everything on this trip. But as my dear idol, Arnold Schwarzenegger once said, “Anger is more useful than despair,” and my other personal favorite, “I see everything,” which has nothing to do with what I’m talking about, but still, quoting Arnold eases my stress.
I’m gonna skip describing what take-off felt like. During it, I held on to my girlfriend’s hand the whole time and squeezed the life out of her. Thank god she’s got the hands of a carpenter’s daughter.
I’m in the air right now and a huge whiff of what smells like baby shit is suspended around my nasal’s perimeter. It’s taking longer than usual to pass. When someone shits or farts around me, I put my nose under my shirt. Some of my friends say that’s rude. Well, what about the guy or infant that farted in front of me? That’s more rude. I don’t give a shit about rude, you can fart all you want, just don’t tell me I’m insulting you because I don’t feel like inhaling and tasting the gaseous form of your feces. I’m covering up. And you’re gonna like it.
As a paranoid, keen-eyed Jew, “I see everything”, and the guy in white sitting directly behind me is definitely an Air Marshall. I don’t know why I’m so intimidated by an Air Marshall. It’s basically just a cop. Maybe it’s the whole enigma of it all. It’s like Batman, you may see him in the streets everyday, but while in action, he’s incognito, a ghost.
“WHO IS THE AIR MARSHALL?” A question every Jew asks. They want to assess his size, strength, psychological stability and location… location is key; The Jew will point his finger in the air and say, “Schmoel, listen to me, his location on the plane would not have been advantageous had a terrorist acted out. You cannot deny this.”
“Oyyyy, Moishe, just let it go.”
The plane is landing soon and after all this time, I only now realized my seatbelt is too loose. Whoever used it on the previous flight must have been 250 pounds. I think it’s time these morbidly obese blobs start aiming for a thinner belly. Before I get off, I’m gonna tighten this belt as much as possible, and when the next fat guy comes in struggling to buckle it up, he’ll get the message of, “Buddy, it’s time to lay off the bacon smoothies.” One of my passions in life is working out and helping fat people realize how simple it is to lose way. The only trouble about the latter is that it can be psychologically damaging to the individual and you may tarnish your relationship with them. Luckily, with the tight-seatbelt-insertion method, my goal is accomplished without any human interaction. I’ve done my part and it fills my heart with pride… and laughter, just thinking about that huge man squirming around to fit his meaningless seatbelt on. The belly of a gigantasaurus person is an airbag in itself–a seatbelt isn’t going to make a difference. If the plane crashes, he’ll bounce around like that old-school macintosh screen-saver ball, and walk out of the plane without a mark on his extraneous fat.
Maybe they’re just as neurotic as me–maintaing their fat in case of an airplane accident….
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