Mmm...dried apricots

So I was flying home from California a few weeks ago and there was a three year-old kid in front of me. But guess what, that wasn’t the problem. Actually, there was no problem at all on the flight until we landed. The plane taxied to the terminal and stopped. Of course, everyone immediately jumped into action to grab their bags from the overhead compartment as if the plane were on fire. Even the people around me did it and we were in row fucking 32 of 35. I mean, fuck people, I don’t care how fast the d-bags in first class move (and they won’t) you’re not getting off any faster because you were the first one to retrieve your bag. It’s not a God-damned contest. Just fucking relax. You’ll get off when the stewardesses (that’s right you old fucking bags, you’re stewardesses not “attendants”) say you can get off.

(Sidebar: I stand corrected. There was a problem and it happened when we were on the ground in L.A. The stewardesses were going around checking the cabin for take off when I politely asked one “Excuse me, can you tell me how many rows there are between me and the emergency exit? I forgot to count on my way in,” I sheepishly continued. This fucking monster of a whore, old bag of used up cockpit rubbers (huh?) told me tersely “I don’t know, count them.” I was totally flabbergasted. First of all, I’m a fucking pussy when I fly, I’ll admit it. I’m convinced the plane is doomed every time. So in my extensive research preparing for a crash I’ve always heard from all the experts that knowing how many rows there are between you and the emergency exit can literally save your life. How in the fuck does this dried apricot cunt not know that? Or respect that? Fuck her. Second, it’s hard to count the rows when you’re fucked up on 30 milligrams of valium. I couldn’t accurately count the rows. I figured she’s on planes all the time, she should know. And, quite honestly, she should praise me for my diligence. It could only help her in the case of an accident. You know, after all those years of dangerous flying, I hope she gets off her final flight safely, sheds a tear as the crew bids her farewell and then joyously leaves the airport, only to be crushed by a Hertz bus as she steps off the curb to go to her car. Hertz, bitch, don’t it? (not too witty)

Anyfuckingway, like I was saying, the rest of the flight was quite pleasant. Until we got to the gate in Boston. The little kid was understandably squirmy. So, in a ridiculously transparent effort to share her pain with the rest of the people on board, she propped her little man up on the seat so he could marvel everyone with his amazing cuteness. (Note: he was not cute). The amazing thing was, everyone took the bait. They started asking him his name and how old he was. He said he was “three and a quarter.” Three and a quarter!! Oh how adorable. Everyone laughed like they’d never heard such a thing! Oh my how precocious. The mother beamed, stupid whore that she was. I stared at the kid with death eyes, hoping he’d see only those black holes in my head and not everyone’s joyous faces. But he didn’t. And good thing too, it really wasn’t his fault. These people were eating out of his hands. So then the kid starts saying “are we here?” And then repeats it ad nauseam until one guy – a guy I’d like to see burned alive – says “Yep. It’s all because of you that we made it.” This seemed to please the kid. Of course, it sent my eyes rolling so far back in my head I could see my asshole. Mind you, this guy was not related to the kid, which would’ve made the comment annoying but less so. No, this guy was a complete stranger. And he felt the need to make this kid feel like the Messiah, why?? The extra sickening part was that everyone agreed, just to appease this little faggot. I mean, what the fuck, is this the kid from the Twilight Zone movie? You know the one, where he gets everything he wants and his parents walk on eggshells around him because he has the ability to turn them into monsters and shit? Oh never mind, it’s a dumb reference. Anyway, let’s all take it easy on kids these days, okay? They’re not getting enough attention and praise. They probably have no idea they are loved. Oh the poor kids of today, it must be so hard for them.



Not too apricotty.