Hell Air

Every time I go to the airport, I suddenly feel like Charlie Chaplin trapped in a mechanism I cannot control.

I arrive at the counter. I check in. For once, everything is fine. I'm in the computer. Whew. Relief. I have my ticket. One last step and I'm done. I throw the bag on the scale and it's 10 pounds over.

"Can you shift things around?" the counter lady asks?

"No, I can't shift things around, you stupid cunt." (I didn't say that, but I wanted to.)

So I politely agree to "shift things around," and the nightmare begins. I begin to unpack in front of an audience of 20 travelers. I open my suitcase, and it feels like I'm opening my soul. My life comes pouring out onto the concrete floor. Everyone studies my assortment of socks, books, Netflix, underwear. Privacy is a thing of the past.

One man, an asshole, sees a book I'm reading, but he can't make out the whole title:

Asshole: Hey, what book is that?
Me: America.
Asshole: What's it about?
Me: America.

I throw my repacked bag onto the scale again. I am now 20 pounds under the weight limit. How the fuck did that happen? Did I really repack 30 pounds’ worth of socks?

I put the next bag on the scale and the zipper breaks. I try not to get upset. I accept that it's just my bad karma haunting me on behalf of all the actors I've mistreated over the years.

So now I can't check the bag. I carry it and head to the gate. I pass all the food courts. I want to stop, but I can't eat and juggle three bags at the same time, and I'm running late because of the 30 minutes spent repacking my socks. I desperately want to stop and spend $9 on a tuna fish sandwich, but I resist and head to the plane.

I arrive at the gate and the ticket taker ignores me. I was going to ask whether they're boarding my flight, but it becomes painfully obvious they are. However, I've already stood there for five minutes, so it would be weird to just walk away without asking my question. I'm terrified of doing anything strange in an airport for fear of detainment and/or imprisonment. I don't want to spend the summer at Abu Ghraib. So I stand there and smile, but he continues to ignore me. Finally, after he has taken the tickets of five other people, he turns and asks, "May I help you?" So I say, "Are you boarding now?" He looks at me like I'm an idiot.

I board the plane. The oh-so-chipper flight attendant says, "How are you, sir?"

I make a stupid joke about having to repack and she sees this as her cue to do a five minute stand-up routine:

Flight attendant: “Who knew underwear was so heavy! I guess that's why they have nudist colonies, blah blah blah. You know whenever I travel with family I pull out the scale and we weigh it at home. You should get a scale."

Do you see how fat I am, you fucking cunt??? Do you really think I want a scale in my house??? (I didn’t say that, but I wanted to.)

I continue to listen and smile. And smile. And the next day my friend informs me that I whine too much in my blogs, so I just want to say that I enjoyed the experience very much and I look forward to doing it again in the near future. Have a happy day and enjoy your flight!