Mile-High and Scared Sh*tless

Posted: February 13, 2008 in about me, friends


“Friendly Skies” my ass.

…but let me back up…

The family trip to Disney starts next Tuesday…

…for approximately the cost of what it would take to fund a small rebel guerrilla outfit in South America.

Viva La Mickey Mouse!

(I have no idea what I just wrote, as I don’t understand German)


Anyway…

It’s not the overall cost of this trip that’s worrying me, though.

(as I’ve successfully raided the kids’ college fund…requiring them to work in child labor camps (i.e., “Walmart”) until they’re old enough to get a job at McDonald’s)

What’s bother me is the fact that I have to fly to get there.

F*CK.

I HATE flying.

I’d consider driving, but if you’ve read any of my previous driving posts, you know I hate driving even more.

I never used to hate flying.

In fact, I actually still like the feeling of my tiny little midgetman body being squashed into the seats as the jet launches into a holeshot…

…my arms and legs flailing all about…

…just like Paris Hilton on a date.


It’s just the part where the damn thing goes into the air that freaks me out.

Big planes, little planes…it doesn’t matter…

…the paranoia is all equal.

Let me explain…

First off, let me preface by saying that no matter what I do, something invariably goes wrong when I go on a trip.


You name it, I have a goddamn story for it.

It’s just the way it goes for me.

Lost luggage?

Of course.

Sitting on a runway for four hours?

Absolutely.

Entire Eastern seaboard loses power..requiring you to stay an extra night in “F*cked-in-the-ass, South Carolina?

Happened TWICE.

I’m still sore.

I hate South Carolina (ever hear of LUBE, guys?)

Plane sheared in half mid-flight, forcing me and 47 other survivors to live on an uncharted island 1,000 miles off-course…fighting polar bears and other people living on the island?

No…

…not YET.

…but it’s only a matter of time.


Anyway…

It just so happens that things get exponentially bad when you’re at 32,000 feet.

Like I said, I used to like flying.

However, when my wife became pregnant with our first child (thank you, UPS man!), the thoughts of mortality started to creep in.

For some unknown reason, my business trips around the country began taking on a hideous, ominous glow…

…like a naked Rosie O’Donnell in fluorescent lighting.

I think I just threw up a little in my mouth.

Sorry about that.


Needless to say, my first trip after beginning to feel these anxiety pangs was a long jaunt to the state of Oregon (state motto: “You WILL Smoke Pot!“).

To make matters worse, this trip actually involved THREE hops.

Three.

Awesome.

I was white-knuckled for the first two hops.

Then, came the third…

I was traveling with Rob, who used to be a skydiving instructor.


He knew that I was anxious about this flight and had been ribbing me on it the whole trip.

It was when he started giggling as we walked through the airport to our last flight, that I got worried.

Me: “Hey…why are we going downstairs?”

Rob: (chuckles)

Sometimes…I hate Rob.

Me: “UM…Hey…why are we walking across the tarmac?”

Yeah.

I’m walking across the f*cking runway for some reason.

Rob (f*cker barely containing himself): “We’re taking a puddle-jumper.”

Oh…no.

A puddle-jumper.

If you’re unfamiliar with the term, a “puddle-jumper” is a little plane roughly the size of your fist…

..with PROPELLERS.

F*CK ALL THAT IS F*CKABLE.


I don’t WANT to go on a plane with propellers.

I want big, hefty jet engines…

…and a plane that fits LOTS of people…

…and snacks that I don’t have to pay extra for.

The closer we got to the plane, the smaller it looked.…which I think is contrary to the laws of perception (although, I did fail Geography, so I’m not sure of this law, specifically).

I then noticed the stairs.

Wait…

STAIRS?!?!?

I had to actually CLIMB into the plane.

How excellent this is.


Then comes the f*cking kicker..

As I’m climbing up the stairs, I notice some writing on the plane near the tail, with a little cartoon arrow:

“Black Box Here”

Oh, joy!

This is EXACTLY what I wanted to see while climbing the ladder into a f*cking model airplane.


I’m so excited at this point I can hardly contain myself.

Actually, the plane was so f*cking small that IT could hardly contain myself.

Then came the really fun part.

Turbulence.

Turbulence
Pronunciation:
\ˈtər-byə-lən(t)s\
Function:
noun
Definition:
Air doing all kinds of freaky bumpy sh*t causing you to defecate in your pants. See also “Panic Attacks” and “Uncontrollable Urination.”


I was sitting near the front of the plane, and Rob was across the aisle (which was, in a plane this size, about 4 inches away from me).

The stewardess was called to the cockpit (which is, in this plane, literally the size of a pit that can hold a c*ck)

…she emerged, grabbed the microphone…

…and proceeded to warn us about some rough weather coming up.


Her warning went like this:

“Ladies and gentlemen, the pilot wanted me to let you know that we’re approaching some…”

..she was about to say the word “turbulence.”

However, at that EXACT moment, we actually HIT the goddamn turbulence.

This actually caused the plane to plummet about 200 feet…

…inducing weightlessness and – for me – sheer and utter terror.

As a result, her announcement came out like this:

“Ladies and gentlemen, the pilot wanted me to let you know that we’re approaching some turbu-LAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

People screamed.

Things flew in the air.

I poo’d a little.


I looked at Rob, I had no blood left in my face.

He was in tears laughing at me.

Yeah…sometimes Rob really IS a dick.

Karma had it in for him, though…

…as it turned out that they lost his golf clubs when we got to Oregon.

HA HA! Sucker!

I felt a little better.

Until I realized that they lost my f*cking clothes.

Awesome.

I hate flying.

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