Thursday, October 28, 2010

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Fatty Flies Home

Given a choice, I’d opt for my period and a raging outbreak of crabs over flying. And no it’s not the cost. Driving is actually more expensive & time consuming when you factor in the amount of stops I make to eat and snack. Being trapped like a fat sardine at 10,000 feet with $40 sandwiches $400 beers keeps me sober, hungry and on budget. I wanna know who decided flying should simulate anal intrusion with pitch fork? Let’s see…I have to check in at home or pay a higher price to have a not so friendly pent up bitch in a tie help me operate a computer screen at the airport & then insult my luggage in the same way I am insulted every day….by putting it on the scale and charging more if it doesn’t abide by some anorexic vacation luggage weight standard. Whore. If you weigh in at 450lbs it would stand to reason you need more than 50 lbs of luggage to cover your ass. Dumb fucks. Imagine what they would charge me to fly if I got on the scale. I don’t have that kinda credit, thank you. To add insult to injury, after you’ve paid “Pat” to tell you what buttons to push and how fat you & your suitcase are….the bitch wants you to carry your oversized belongings over to another asshole so he can pull out your size 2x thong to ensure it’s not a security threat. I got news for ya, the only threat that piece of string poses is to whatever unlucky soul happens to be sitting next to me when the string finally concedes defeat! Have at it dickhead. Thus why I only pack dirty underwear. Who said scratch & sniff went out in the 80’s. I’m bringin it back.
This might explain why my unassumingly large self was selected for random screening. Whatever. I got nothing to hide. And what I do have you will never find without a jackhammer so have at it. I get no action at home. Having a middle aged “sister” all up in my pink taco is a welcome intrusion these days. I made a crucial error. I forgot to buy “snacks” before I crossed the threshold into million dollar candy land. Fuck. I like to give my jaw a good workout by consuming gummy creatures and then washing them down with a Diet Coke. I had to break down and do my shopping at one of those over priced wanna be airport Wally Worlds. When I brought my exercise equipment to the counter, the cashier looked at me and said, “You know these are $10 right?” What the fuck? Can a SIF ever workout on the DL? Shit! Yes I know they are $10. They are Swedish Fish. Imported. I’m willing to pay more for European fish, hooker. Then she asked if I wanted my receipt. Why? Can I regurgitate on the counter and get my money back? How about I leave it with you as a reminder to keep your pie hole in the locked position next time. Wannabe travel whore. I made my way to the gate hoping I could find a nice quiet spot to eat my well traveled sushi. Not so much. I must have a sign on my ass like those shorts that say “Juicy.” Except mine says, “Freak Lover.” Anyone missing teeth, personality or any form of hygiene welcome. My worst airport fear was realized. I was paged. And they called me Mrs. Byrd. How am I supposed to get into the mile high club if my potential suitors hear me being addressed like that? There should be some sort of rule against being called Mrs. when you only get sex on the days that end with Z. What could they possibly want? Blah blah the plane is late and we want to fly you through NYC just to make sure you get where you are going on time. Not happening. I’ve been waiting a year for a cheese steak. I will wait for the plane to Philly. Overnight if I have to. Time is just a number. Grease is forever.

When I arrived in Philly I did what every good traveler should do. Find the food court. It’s a big airport & you could starve without a plan. That’s why I researched the layout in the US Air magazine whilst I was trapped next to some Asian chick watching movies on her phone in subtitles. Whatever. I prefer to read like the cultured SIF I am. That Skymall is a-fuckin-amazing! I made out my Christmas list. I can’t decide what I want more…the massaging support bra or the heated panty liners. In an effort to save time on my way to the cheese steak place, I tried flagging down one of those shuttle things. Blah blah they are only for people who have trouble walking. Well fuck. My thighs rub together and frankly I can’t think of anything more troubling than that. It was a long walk but it gave me time to think….about which one of the fatties from my plane would be accompanying me. It was the one I thought. She was dressed all professional in an effort to cover up what I knew to be present….fat. And lots of it. Those poor high heels were being worked harder than a whore in church. I let her go ahead of me to see if we were from the same tree. Cheese steak, fries and a Diet Soda. Family fuckin reunion! I even sat next to her in the eating area to size up her plate to pallet ratio. I beat her. Only bcs I got a cheese steak wrap which decided to squirt meat juice down my tits. Tasty combination…wrong scenario. I didn’t have a napkin so I wiped down my jubblies with the receipt. Now I’m bloated and smell like cow gut. Yummy. I can’t imagine why the offers for membership into the mile high club weren’t piling in? I decided to go back to the gate and see which ingrate would be falling asleep on my shoulder on this leg of the flight. After I determined my flight to be on time, I noticed something peculiar. No plane. If its 9:25, your flight leaves at 9:30 and there isn’t a plane….I think that’s code for delayed. I mean, I’m not a bitch wearing a tie, with the worst fuckin attitude imaginable sporting a US Air badge, but I can tie my shoes. Since everyone flying on this leg was most likely on their way to Cornell, I decided to play a little game of…I didn’t go to college and I’m smarter than you. While they were all staring outside looking for the plane, running to the monitors and panicking I sat completely still reading a trash novel. I knew it would only be a matter of time before they required the services of one uneducated fatty. Sure enough. After explaining to the Ivy League crowd that we would take off when there was a plane at the gate, they seemed to settle a bit. They ate their apples and drank their bottled water while I tried to get the chocolate stains off the book I borrowed from the library. Damn granolas. For the record….very high in fat.

As I boarded the plane along side the PHD’s I was glad to know there were doctors on board. Even if that meant they were useless to anyone except their egos. I was fortunate enough to sit next to a pilot on this leg. Not in the cockpit. Coach. Apparently he had done his time and was headed back to his car. Seems like an expensive commute but whatever. I didn’t know if I should call him Sir or Satan. I always consider it an omen to sit next to airline employees. Almost guarantees the plane is going down. I ask only one thing. Let me be the lone survivor so I can finally make my debut on the Today show. Headline: “Fat credited for saving life of lone survivor of Philly Crash.” I’m ok with that. It’s better than my current famewhoring strategy of camping out at 30 Rock so I can jump up and down behind Al Roker in hopes the Biggest Loser producers will see me and have me on the show. By the looks of our plane I started to think this whole scenario was a possibility. I flew one of those “prop” planes. Ya know…the kind they wind up prior to take off and hope they did enough to keep it going until it lands. One of those. And not for nothing, prop in my world means “prop”…used to make something fake look real. Like my plastic surgeon. Not comforting. Don’t look for any mothering from those bitchy flying waitresses. They act like rolling a beverage cart 5 feet to the end of the aisle is so stressful. Stressful is pouring me half a drink and keep what’s left in the can! Bitches. At one point she asked me if my feet fit under the seat. I told her no just to see what she would suggest. Shall I stow them? Crotch face. I can’t help I have size 11 feet. I can lodge one up your ass and hope your personality comes out. I decided to look around the plane to see what everyone else was doing. As luck would have it, I happened upon a lady digging at her head. She had the genetic predisposition of Mr. Ed which made her digging habit that much more disturbing. She must have been perplexed by what she was finding bcs she kept going back for more and inspecting it each time. The lady sitting next to her reading her Kindle even stopped what she was doing to give her the “gas” face. As luck would have she opted to shake away her treasures. Not lucky for me as they landed on my side of the seat. Psoriasis. The gift that keeps on giving. Nasty whore. I was stuck in the land of recycled halitosis and DNA flakes. Yummy.

Most people look out the window for signs they are getting close to their destination. Vegas style lights, landmarks and traffic. Not where this SIF grew up. I look for total darkness and a lone man waving an orange flag to guide the prop onto the stage. For the record, I’m not one of those annoying fucks who jump up the minute we hit the tarmac. Fatties don’t like to appear anxious. Besides, I smelled like cheese steak. Angst doesn’t compliment that too well. Deplaning took forever bcs there was some old woman pretending she couldn’t walk so we had to wait for a moving stairway to meet the plane. I offered to throw her down the emergency slide. I was in that row and had already agreed to provide my services. In any event, I made it home just in time to tell Mother how hungry I was after some fat lady spilled cheese steak on my $5,000 boobies and I was forced to starve bcs I couldn’t afford buy a sandwich from the flying prostitutes. Gotta love Mom.