….yet another search term that landed someone out there in the universe at my blog. I’m actually afraid to even Google the term “human pie” in fear of what I might find. Someone else do it and tell me how it goes.
Noprah. That is to say I have never watched an episode of Oprah. I don’t know how I’ve managed to go this long throughout life without even accidentally witnessing a single snippet of Oprah’s Favorite Things or her infamous Book Club, but somehow I have. I’ve dodged the bullet. I’ve led the Oprah seeker-missile off course. It’s only time before government intelligence is after me for secrets on how to escape and divert enemies. I mean, the woman is taking over network television and I haven’t even accidentally caught 30 seconds of any of her shows. Maybe you aren’t trying hard enough, Oprah.
…Stay away from Netflix. That’s my domain.
I have been on probably 10 flights in the past year. I’m pissed. I absolutely loathe flying. “R u afraid of hites? lolz” No, idiots. I hate airport security more than anything in the world. “But they keep you safe from terrorists!” No they don’t. The last two flights I was on, I was seated directly next to wailing infants. Explain to me how they are any different from terrorists. It’s such a hassle. It’s 110 degrees in the terminal, they’ve got me taking off my shoes, bagging my liquids and gels, heckling me about what’s in or not inside my pockets, exposing my belongings to the world, scanning my tata’s. I’m over it. I actually got asked if I would allow my headband to be searched last time. My headband. What the f@#% am I going to hide in my headband that could harm another human being? Please. Please give me a reason why this type of inspection is valid.
Stop wasting my life. Stop wasting yours. Stop being all wasted.
Another thing I hate about flying is having to listen to the safety procedures prior to takeoff every single time. What’s funny about this, however, is that even though I have probably heard the word-for-word descriptions on aircraft safety over 100 times, I couldn’t tell you a single thing that it says. “…..flotation device……@#%#$……air mask….&%$#….oxygen is flowing.” That’s all I’ve got. Really. Don’t look to me for assistance if “in the unlikely event” we have a water-landing. I’ll be looking stupid next to the emergency exit with my Biscoff cookies.
I have a lot of beef with most, if not all of the airplane “safety regulations.” Where do I even begin. Seeing as airplane seats are indisputably the most uncomfortable apparatuses to ever be sat upon, I seek solace in tilting the chair back the measly 15 degrees that it will decline and attempting to go unconscious for the flight in order to not experience it fully. Every time I tilt that shitty chair back prior to takeoff, I get bitched at by the stewardesses. “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to please put your seat in the upright position until after takeoff.”
Give me one good reason why I should do this. How in fack’s sake is my chair being tilted backward TWO inches going to prevent the plane from being able to lift off safely? Seriously. Tell me. I’ll give you a hint: IT ISN’T. Go fetch me a Diet Coke.
Seatbelts. Plane seatbelts are a joke. Are you trying to tell me that if our jet crashes into the crust of the earth going 500 miles an hour, that having that single, sad strap of nylon across my lap is going to save my life? It’s not. I may as well have a strand of spaghetti across my lap if we’re being realistic. In the words of the abortion activists, “It’s MY body!” Get off my back.
I also got bitched at by a stewardess on my last flight for not having my purse stored 100%, completely under the seat in front of me. I’m not talking about a handbag the size of a suitcase that douchebag girls carry four bichon frises in. I mean a small, compact, cross-body satchel that was literally sticking out maybe four inches from under the seat in front of me. How is that a hazard on the airplane? Does the placement of my purse really have that much of an impact on how safely the aircraft flies? I really, really doubt it. It’s on nobody’s toes but my own. Who gives a shit? Leave me alone. Get me another Diet Coke.
Alright, time to pass out. I have 11 pounds of shrimp and pasta in my belly. I need to make like a bear and hibernate. Peace out, girlscouts.
“Bring it on you short-bearded faggot!”