Sardines on an Airplane (Part 1)

As everyone who knows me knows (or should know), I despise flying. That's right. I firmly believe that humans were never meant to be more than six feet off of the ground. So while all you careless individuals are sitting there, enjoying your books or portable electronic devices, sipping drinks and making pleasant conversation, or watching ridiculous in-flight movies, I'm either vigorously chugging over-priced booze until I can no longer form complete sentences or I'm huddled over the commode in the cramped lavatory, clutching my stomach and violently heaving. I've also been known to randomly attack other passengers due to the altitude and the fact that I dislike almost ninety-five percent of everyone alive in the world today. So, sticking me into a seat between two of the world's worst/fattest human beings inside of a large, claustrophobia-inducing, metal tube, hundreds of miles above the surface of the earth, with two hundred more of the world's worst human beings is not ideal. Needless to say, I only fly when I have absolutely no other means of transportation.

To my dismay, about a month ago, I received word that my step-uncle Fitz (twice removed) who lived in Boston, was on his death bed and didn't have much longer to live. I was deeply saddened, not by his death, but by the fact that I was going to have to utilize flight as a means to get to him. As first, I was furious. How dare these people tear me away from my busy life in New Mexico to travel out to Boston, the armpit of the Northeast, to see someone who only sent me cards full of cash on Christmas. I have a birthday too ya know! I initially tried to get out of going. I came up with all kinds of excuses, the first one being that I was also on my death bed and I didn't have much time left to live either. Unfortunately, this excuse didn't hold any water due to the fact that I told it to my mother in person when she showed up to personally deliver the bad news. In hindsight, I suppose telling her while I did my daily calisthenics routine was a bad choice.

Next, I told her that I'd come, but only if I got to drive. I explained that I'd rent a car and drive nonstop all the way to Boston. Of course, I secretly planned to get into a car accident somewhere along the way and not make it there, but she didn't know that. Unfortunately, she refused, stating that I wouldn't make it there in time and step-uncle Fitz would already be dead. I was livid.

Apparently my only way of getting to Boston in time to see Fitz alive was to nauseously soar through the sky inside of an overpriced winged monstrosity and I had no choice but to go. At least my mother would be accompanying me on the flight.

Unfortunately, I discovered several minutes after agreeing to go that my mother would not be accompanying me on the flight. She had to leave that instant to get back and take care of some arrangements for the body once Fitz decided to selfishly keel over. Once again, I would be flying alone. I thought back to the last time I was on a plane and frowned.
It was Christmas eve and I was traveling from New Mexico to Oregon to see my sister and her family for Christmas. Halfway through the flight, I came to the realization that I despised and had no use for our flight attendant, who was taking an excruciatingly long time to bring me my alcoholic beverages. I took it upon myself to walk to the back of the plane where they keep the beverages and dutifully fill my carry-on with all the mini-bottles of booze it would hold. I was noticed by the attendant, scolded harshly, and told to put all the bottles back where I got them. I defiantly refused her outlandish request and proceeded to attempt to drink every last one of the bottles before I was violently subdued by a meddling Navy Seal who was sitting nearby. The terrible tantrum that ensued forced the pilot to perform an emergency landing somewhere in Utah and I spent Christmas Eve in a holding cell.

Another time, I had overheard several teenagers in the seats behind me discussing the "Mile High Club", which apparently is a club that can only be joined by performing some type of sexual activity on board a flying aircraft. Naturally, I felt the need to become a member so I locked myself inside the small airplane bathroom, stripped all of my clothing off, and began to masturbate to a pamphlet on airplane safety. As I wildly gave in to my manly desires while looking at the beautiful temptress wearing the oxygen mask in the pamphlet, I felt the first bit of joy I'd ever felt on an airplane. Unfortunately, the joy was short-lived as an elderly woman opened the door of the lavatory that I had apparently failed to lock properly. Upon seeing my pale, completely nude figure crouched atop the toilet, penis in hand, with a perverse smile on my face, she let out a scream that surely could've summoned the gods from on high. The horrible scene that ensued forced the pilot to make an emergency landing in Nashville and I spent the night in a holding cell.

Needless to say, I was not eager to fly again.

With sadness in my soul, I packed my suitcase and twisted off the top of a bottle of Seagram's. I was scheduled to leave the following morning and one cannot fly on an airplane unless one's head is in the right place.