Tag Archives: getting drunk

Airports. Let’s f***ing party.

Airports.  Where else are you going to find dogs, drugs and a blonde Santa wearing a ‘please bang me’ sweater?

So I had to take a couple of flights today, which has prompted me to write about my love for airports and all the F-tards within their somewhat semi-autonomous but fully frustrating walls .  For the sake of this article let’s assume that I was flying to a remote CIA bunker deep in the Amazon, instead of saying, I went to my parents’ place in Vermont.

By the way my parent’s don’t live in Vermont, because that would be fucking stupid.

So why do I love airports so much?  It’s because of the people, I tell you, the people.

Let’s start with the ones you meet when you first arrive.  I’m not talking about curbside check-in valet bullshit workers either.  The workers; yeah, they’re OK.  But fuck the people using them.  Grab your suitcase you lazy cockmuffin and get inside. We’ll call that place the lobby or the ‘check in’ area, or the Departures Zoo Headquarters.  It truly looks like a fucking zombie playground.   Hordes of people with frightened faces walking in all directions.  I don’t understand how so many people could be headed to so many places.  Where are these idiots all going?  Go to the counter, go to security or go blow someone in the bathroom.  Those are your options.

Not only are they lost in a building with very few options, but these noobs decided to show up sober, as if an airport is any place to experience not under the influence.  Personally, if I’m true to form then I’ve arrived either stoned, hungover or working my way back to both.  These are what I would call “awesome life choices” that neither improve my ability to handle fluorescent lights at 5:00 am, nor faciliatate the interactions with those around me.  But then again, that’s why I do it in the first place.  However, even in my incoherent state of coherency I’m smarter than 95% (not an estimate) of the people there.  Just start with those people that stand paralyzed like, well, paralyzed people, in front of those giant auto-revolving doors like they just saw a shark and a turtle fucking in front of them and they don’t know how to react.  Walk into the empty space and then keep walking.  Shit, that’s like 10% of the people right there.

Anyway, so there I am with my approriately sized carry on item and my one personal item – my backpack / cooler filled with Beast Tallboys. (I like this one because it’s camo, so pretty much no one ever sees it).  “Tallboys?”, you are probably asking in a mocking voice.  “But you can’t take liquids through security”   Yeah, no shit.  The beer is to drink in line while waiting to get through secuirty; no way I wanna lose my buzz just because I have to stand and watch a bunch of geriatrics break their backs taking off some Skechers Shape Ups for an hour. I can’t stand the smell of old people and their decaying feet.  I’ve got an idea that would probably cut that line in half.  Maybe if we elminate the inheritance tax then some of these old farts wouldn’t be afraid to just give up and die.  But more about Security later.

Right, so you need to collect your boarding pass.  There will be two options if you’re lucky.  1 – Wait in line and go to the counter to have them do it. 2 – Wait in a shorter line for Self Check In and you do it.  As with many activities, I’m a big DIY kind of a guy.  Now, no matter which one you choose, undoubtedly there will somehow be a mass of Asian tourists in front of you.  I swear you can arrive at an empty airport, and then after you lean down to tie your shoes (which is code for ‘drink your first beer’) when you look up there will be roughly 734 South Koreans with giant, I mean huge, massive, stainless steel bullet proof looking suitcases in front of you.  Like they all just got beamed there from Kimchi feast or something.  For the record Koreans – Thumbs Up;  Kimchi – Thumbs Down.  It’s just the crowds of Asians I don’t understand.  I never see just one or two Asian tourists.  Yes, I do see Asian-Americans in single and dual numbers, but not their tourists cousins from Asia.  It’s as if those departing from Japan, South Korea or even China, are required to buy no less than 30 tickets in order to qualify for what looks to be a group discount on glasses on haircuts.  No complaints here, but I have never seen an Asian with dreadlocks.

Anyway, I make a cool calculation and decide to head towards the Self Check In station. Seems as though any automated machine these days will asks for the one piece of information I don’t know.  Thinking I am well armed having remembered my name (first and last), phone number and roughly 300 different internet user names and passwords, I step up like I’m about to play Pac Man.  Wrong.  It wanted my confirmation code or my passport.  Passport?  I’m going to Nantucket, not on a drug run to Panama. Fortunately though, I’m not poor,  so I own a smartphone; otherwise shit would have gotten messy.  Badda boom badda bing, 20 seconds and another beer later I’ve got Gmail open and I can see my confirmation code.  Hit print and let’s go to security.

Beep! Beep!! FUCKING BEEP!!!!

I turn around in time to jump out of the way and narrowly miss what can only be described as an elephant whale on a shopping cart.  In reality it was just a fat dude in one of those golf carts going 2 MPH and being driven by an airport worker whose facial expression suggests he’d rather be getting sodomized by giant squid than drive one 30 yards to his gate.  Poor guy.  I slip him one of my beers as he passes.

So I get to security and try and go through the Priority line. It works nearly every time.  Seriously, try it, they never notice you.

Anyway, I try to go through priority and some minimum wage earning clown tells me to go to the end of the standard line.  My emotions are mixed but I’m kind of drunk right now and don’t feel like fighting a 75 year old woman.  And I’ve still got 3 beers to drink.  Besides you can stand there in line and watch the shit show of the people in front of you.  Airports are such a great mix of people.  Except for poor people.  They can’t really afford to upgrade from Greyhound so they’re aren’t a lot of them at airports.

Regardless of the usual barriers to good American jobs (race , sex, creed, etc.) all these people in line are equal.  Equal in that for some reason they look nervous.   The closer they get to the security check the more chatty they get.  Shifting their weight from foot to foot and looking around as if they’ve got something to hide.  Which they don’t, because they lead boring lives.  But it’s as if they’re carrying a kilo of blow and forgot to take it out of their suitcase and now they’re in a line of people and they’re about to walk through a metal detector and oh shit, the line’s moving again and they’re so nervous they’re about to shit their pants. I love it.  It’s laughable.   It’s like once they get to the front where they need to put all there shit in a tray they feel pressure from the people behind them to move faster; but instead of doing things better, they just do everything worse in a rushed manner and make everything slower.

Seems like most of them can’t think straight; no doubt these thoughts going through their head “Put my main carry on on the conveyor belt.  Grab a tray. Shit, what about my liquids.  Fuck, they’re in the main carry on.”  A TSA worker is yapping at them “phone, wallets, shoes, computers, dildos, belts”   The ticket holder tries to grab another tray “What?  My shoes?  Alright, there.  Fuck, I need a dish for my belt and earrings and clit piercing and dog collar.  Hold on, I gotta take my computer out.”      Like it even matters.  The dudes behind the screens are looking at porn anyway.  If you want to bring something on a plane, pack it in your carry on.

Anyway, it all makes for great entertainment while I finish two of my beers and slip the last one in the suitcase of the guy in front of me. Damn, he’s gonna have trouble explaining that one.  I feel a little bad that I opened it first, but no matter, it’s my turn at the conveyor belt of doom.  I toss my bag up, grab a tray and slip out of my shoes that I never tie.  I’m wearing sweatpants so there’s no belt and I already put my shiny metal stuff in my bag.  It’s like no one ever considers the option of doing anything until they get to the front of the line.  As if it would be illegal to put their watch and coins in a pocket of their suitcase.  Morons.

By the way, if the TSA ever ask you anything always answer with what they want to hear.  “Do you have a computer, cell phone, switch blade or bomb?”   No, no, no and no.  “Did you pack your own bag?  Did you buy your own bag?  Have you met the Chinese guy who stitched it together?”  Yes, yes and of course I did.  Mr. Li is very nice man.  He’s behind me now taking some pictures.   Honestly though, fuck that; I usually just fill a suitcase with dirty clothes and try and make a classic switch-a -roo with some rich guy who’s too busy talking on his iPhone about spreadsheets and pussy to his coworkers to notice I’ve got his Louis V and he’s got my Goodwill hamper special.  Don’t forget to fill it with your dirty whites. The ringer cannot appear empty.

After you get a new bag, wheel it down to your gate and take a nap.  Or, have yourself a little bump of coke to stay awake to watch all the assholes stand in line at the counter to ask stupid questions.  What are all those peeholes up there asking?  “Can I get an aisle seat?  Can I get a window seat?  Are there going to be peanuts on the plane?  You’re not going to let that dark skinned fellow on this plane are you?”  Bunch of assholes.  I love the employees behind the desk.  They look up as if you’ve interupted them performing brain surgery.  They furrow their brow, shake their head, sigh and say “well I’ll see what I can do.”  At which point they just randomly type on the keyboard and stare at a blank monitor.  “Sorry sir, I’m afraid you’ll be stuck in the middle seat that you paid for.  Looks like you’ll be between Khalid al-Mihdar and Nawaf al-Hazmi.” Damn. 

I think I’ll wait for the next flight.


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