Saturday, December 21, 2013


                                          FAA (la la la la - bah humbug!)


     I am traveling through the sky in a silver bullet whose latest temperature reading (inside) is approximately 43 below. My butt cheeks are the only part of my body not coated in frost. I haven’t felt them for at least three hours as they have been pressure-packed into a seat cushion the size of a squirrel turd. My nose hasn’t stopped running since take-off, and my thumbs are so stiff I couldn’t text a gnat. 

     What’s this? All of a sudden the entire plane has to pee. People are crawling over each other rushing to the two-foot cubicle that hasn’t been cleaned since Hilary lost the election. These poor fools don’t realize that when I left there about three minutes ago, there were only two squares of toilet paper left, and a chubby  toddler with chewing gum in his hair was standing on the toilet seat spitting Gogurt. His mother was crying in the aisle.

     Looking out the tiny window on my right, I see that there is a snow lake covering the entire sky. There is a blue horizon fooling me into believing that someday I will get off this bird, thaw and feel the warmth of the sun. The wind beneath my wing (the metal one stretching into the beyond with a website address on it) is definitely blowing cold air up my whohaa.

     My elbows are permanently cemented to my ribcage, and my neck has taken on a curve  not unlike a nosey giraffe on speed. The back of my hair is flat while the sides still curl gracefully around my frostbitten jawbones. My eardrums ruptured over Kansas due to the volume I had to maintain to block out the screaming infant in the seat in front of us. 

     The lady behind me hasn’t stopped coughing since Nebraska, and when I offered her one of my throat lozenges, she flipped me off. Her husband was drooling on her arm, and I think she took out her rage on yours truly. Or, maybe it wasn’t her husband. Hmm.

     Mr. Wonderful is claustrophobic. Traveling with him is like taking a gazelle into a confession booth. He re-racks to pass the time. I look the other way, as always. What would he do if I simply reached in every now and then and pushed the girls around in front of God and everyone? Unfortunately, he would love it. They’ve had the nubs since twenty minutes after takeoff so this is currently impossible.

     Only 97 minutes left to touchdown. I long for the great thaw in Phoenix. What? A cold snap? High of whaaaat? fml