I’ll have a double margarita, salt and rocks, ear plugs, vicodin, horse tranqs, and perhaps a cattle prod. You guys carry cattle prods? No? What about muzzles or perhaps a ball gag? Not for me, you understand, for those little hooligans in row 27. They should be flogged. Tossed out the back of the plane like D.B. Cooper and all his cash, no parachute you see, let them serve as an example to all bratty ass kids flying alone over the holidays. Shuttling between Parent A on the West Coast and Parent B in Chicago, step mothers and cousins might be outraged, but I’m very much alright with that. I’ll even take the blame. Responsibility is the key, and I’m willing to take it on. Sean Brown for Senate in 2012, running on a platform of corporal punishment and personal responsibility. The rest will fall into line.
This is all part of the deal, part of the bargain, part of the scene. You and that ex-spouse said you’d love each other till the end of time, and then you didn’t. Which, that’s fine, it happens. But then you had kids, and you still broke it off. Not only that, but then you moved across the country from the ex-spouse, forcing the need to shuttle these little monsters (unsupervised) and that’s where we’re running into problems.
At first I was envious of these little sewer rats, new friends and common bonds and good times, but then they started acting up, kicking my seat and shrieking like meth head jackals. Which, I’m sorry to say, is exactly what they’re going to turn into if we don’t nip this thing in the bud now. I’m sure you’ll see this as a good thing eventually. You and me and Google, which apparently owns the rights to anything I post on Facebook these days. Which is fun, we can throw them out the plane too while we’re at it. The Anarchist Project needs to get paid. Let’s see what Droid does then.
I mean, all I want out of life is to be seated next to a cutie. Is that really too much to ask? Someone my own age or maybe slightly younger. We’ll have drinks, make small talk, and hopefully never even exchange names. We’ll ask for a blanket, and the flight attendant will give us a knowing smile. Buttons will be unsnapped and clothes will be bunched up. It will be good times. If these little hooligan rats in 27 would only shut the fuck up. They’re totally ruining the mood. I want to hurt them. Remove their tongues from their mouths with pliers or perhaps severe their vocals cords with my trusty Bic ball point pen. I could do it, I would take my time to do it right. Me and the Ghost of Christmas Past.
I’m not sure the whole story ever came out about that dude who cut that kid’s head off on the Greyhound bus in Canada. I’m not saying the dude was right or justified, but I’m curious about how many unsupervised ten years olds he had sitting around him. Jesus, this took a turn for the twisted, where’s my margarita? How is it that there are 57 cuties on this plane and I am sitting next to zero of them? I saw them, sitting there in the waiting lounge outside gate S5, waiting for this cursed plane ride to the frozen tundra. All young and firm and looking to share a blanket and a knowing smile. Instead I got sewer rats.
And they just started a burping contest.
I saw a leopard print transvestite on my walk to the train station this morning; I should have realized that it was a sign of things to come. I spotted her coming at me on Burnside, between 2nd and 3rd, though I didn’t realize what exactly I was dealing with at first. The long legs and leopard print dress caught my attention, especially in a rainy world of blacks and grays and neutral brutalities. Not entirely out of place in my Oldtown neighborhood, home to prostitutes and strippers and other assorted flamboyant styles of dress, but this was morning time, and it was pouring rain. As we got closer, I realized that this was a very tall woman, well over six foot, even without her six inch heels. With a very large face, and a surprisingly muscular jaw line. And extremely large hands, and three day old stubble. Easy tiger, that there’s a man of sorts, best keep moving. I didn’t pay him any attention because I was late for the train that would take me to the taxi that would take me to the airport that would take me home. And besides, his problems were vastly different from my own. Which is fine. The variety of our problems adds a little spice to this fantastically strange mash of troubled souls.
Things are getting a little bumpy sewer rats, better head for higher ground.