Written on a flight and posted during an incredibly long layover from the Vegas terminal/ Southwest Airlines:
Don’t get me wrong, I love Southwest Airlines—what’s not to love about perky employees, blue upholstery, and hearts—but there is just something inherently impolite about airplane travel. Especially when you are going back home cross-country from a family emergency with a ten-foot-tall, crew cut laden hairy-armed behemoth reclining in the seat in front of you. Picture your 15 inch laptop screen scrunched in what little space he has left you after an event that shall, from here forward, be known as “The Reclining.” Jack Nicholson’s got nothing on this guy, not even with his big old axe.
Had you left your Mac where it was initially positioned, the hinges would be broken by now, so you have wisely readjusted and pulled it closer. Now the bottom (the part with the keyboard you are now using, and fervently hope will annoy the living shit out of said behemoth) is hanging halfway off your plastic airline table. As a matter of fact, it is approximately five inches away from your torso. If some violent jolt in the airplane sent it flying backward, you would be promptly eviscerated. Good times. But let’s not think about that right now, Sugar Plum, m’kay?
Anyway…you are taking enormous pleasure out of bouncing this fucker’s seat gently from here to kingdom come with all the typing he has inspired you to do. Dear God in Heaven, you haven’t been this inspired in ages. Seriously, you are in a creative writer’s passive-aggressive heaven right now, and you don’t even have the sense to feel guilt. Why the ix-nay on the uilt-gay? Oh honey, let me explain: Beside your laptop is a plastic cup full of Chardonnay — that’s right, overpriced cheap airline vino.
What the hell, it’s been a rough twelve days or so, you’re getting picked up at your final destination when and if you get there, and the connection in between is freaking Vegas. Vegas, baby! Woman up and drink it like you mean it! Burn your bra and dance badly on tables, because you have recently come to the realization that life is short, so you really need to fuck the establishment once in a while. Right about now, I should probably mention you are already on a roll from wine tasting in a snazzy neon-lit airport bar.
You drank with a drop-dead gorgeous model, a lovely dog trainer/bartender, and a bleach blonde in a tight black dress with a Southern-fried accent (no surprise) in a North East FL airport. Now, that’s girl power out the wazoo, or the vagina if you have one. If you don’t, I do. I’ll lend you mine (and my Powerpuff Girls underwear) for the length of this blog, should you need it. Word to the wise: The vagina’s rather aged, so you don’t want to hang onto it for long, but it’ll do in a pinch, I assure you.
On the bright side, despite a bit of turbulence, you are flying back to California via Vegas in the midst of a beautiful periwinkle sky. And you’re just above a blanket of marshmallow clouds though you can’t recall which ones they’re supposed to be. Cumulus. Nimbus. Stratus. Whatever, you’re not a meteorologist so get over it. All you know is those angelic wisps below look good enough to scoop up and eat with a spoon. No campfire required. Nom. And the white wine —your taste buds have matured enough over the years to appreciate the red stuff, but there’s less risk of a headache this way—has given you a decent buzz. Meanwhile, the guy in the seat in front of you keeps fidgeting like he has fire ants hunting madly for their queen up his pee-hole.
Blog-fucking-tastic…dance for me, you butt-ugly restless Leviathan, dance but keep those pants on, no one wants to see your ant infested pee-hole…and remember, it’s my world, and you started this.
Hmmmm…Where was I, now? Oh yeah: Viva la Revolution! Fuck the Man in the front seat! But don’t take that literally. Aside from your umpteen-years committed relationship and the jerk-wad having a wife who knows how to sit properly on his left, he is entirely hirsute and unattractive. And fuck the police! Wait, no. Not the ones you know (Niles and Cassi), because they are genuinely caring people. Honestly, there’s nothing wrong with many others that serve and protect…okay, after rethinking this, we might shit-can the fucking of the police for the moment.
Anyway, you’re buzzed so you can’t be held responsible for most of the stuff you’re typing anyway, right? That gives you sweet, ubiquitous freedom to render a fabulously satisfying “type-this-bastard-into-a-coma” kind of vengeance. And you’re just the blogger to deliver it, too, baby. Your mojo is prolific. Prolific! You are the Iron Woman of the blogosphere right now. I shit you not. Although the billion-dollar costume is a black and white Vampirella t-shirt under a three-quarter sleeved suit jacket —an ensemble the model claimed to like, so you still feel pretty badass about it.
Please, feel free to go ahead and insert Metallica belting out “I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar” right here. Do it! Hetfield is capable, and I believe the band would probably find it humorous. Plus, I’m sure Helen Reddy won’t mind because it’s bound to be an improvement. Unlike the elevator version of Highway To Hell, which you really hate…yes, in case you’ve forgotten, the title of this blog is “Come Fly With Me” and not “As You Like It.” Shakespeare doesn’t live here. As a matter of fact, he’s dead. You’re in my head, and we like Metal, not Taylor Swift. So just suck it up and take it like a man and/or woman, Cupcake—or both if you like, because I’m not judgmental about things like that.
On the bright side, Sunshine, it turns out you’re early. The plane has made good time. You’ll be touching down soon, having typed your way through the most of the journey and all of that asshole’s patience. And there’s more wine down there, on the ground.