For full effect, download “Mama I’m Comin’ Home” by Ozzy Osbourne from iTunes and play and maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.
Honestly, I have lost track of almost everything at this point in my life. It’s all just a blur to me now. So please excuse me if I have forgotten your name, where you’re from, or who you even are. Everything at this point is just one jumblemuck glob of electronic scanners, continental breakfasts, rental car receipts, and a salesman’s motif of attempting to convince students to come to my institution.
Red Robin Waitress: “What can I get you this afternoon sir?”
Swamp Thing: “Well, the thing that’s great about my college is that we’re very personalized, we’re very affordable, and there are so many things to do in St. George. Do you know what you want to go into for your major?”
Red Robin Waitress: Confused/Perplexed/WTF look across her face “Uh…sir, you’re at a restaurant. Are you sure that you’re doing ok today?”
Yes, that was my life this afternoon. I am an ox, and a moron.
Cut to 37,600 feet in the air where the stewardess has just reminded us over the intercom to keep our seatbelts on throughout the duration of the flight. Seatbelts on an airplane have always bewildered me. Why in the curse word do we have to wear them anyway? It’s not like they are going to actually save our lives if we crash and burn into the ground. Absolutely not they won’t! They in fact would only keep us strapped into our seats while the plane combusted at a violent pace. What do they think happens in the skies anyway? Do we wear seatbelts in case a gigantic 747 pulls out in front of us at the last second and we rear end the monstrous airplane? If that’s the case, I’m unbuckling my cloth strap and going belt-free the rest of the way home.
Pilot: “Whoa! Did you see that jerk? He just pulled out into the turning lane without even signaling! Those Delta pilots, always causing a ruckus up here. My insurance company is going to have a fit with this little fender bender.”
Note: There are no fender-benders 37,600 feet up in the air. For the record, a person is statistically more likely to be killed by a donkey’s back kick to the head than they are to be killed in an airline crash. However, I think we all look like jackasses when we buckle up in the clouds hoping that it might save our lives when gravity has its way with an ailing airplane.
I am Jack’s psychotic medulla oblongata.
Next to me the Monday morning gym rats are flipping through the pages of the Skymall catalog wondering what they’re next pyramid scheme-esque purchase will be once the flight lands.
Mrs. Monday Morning Gym Rat: “Ooh! Look honey, a BBQ branding iron, you can trademark your mediocre medium-rare porterhouse with your initials. How sweet is that?”
What she meant to say is, “How stupid do I have to be to pay $79.95 to inscribe my initials on a piece of meat for roughly 90 seconds? Am I that vain of an individual to get the initials LTT burned into a filet mignon just so my friends will see how rich and pompous I am?
Yes. Yes you are.
Skymall is the floating catalog for high-roller douchebag Mike to have a rewards card with. Honestly some of the things in this catalog make me shake my head in disbelief and wish that the aliens from Mars Attacks would come and wipe out our planet. I mean we’ve got things like the oscillating table tennis trainer, or the 15-foot high skateboard sailboat. Heck, for just one low payment of $49.95, you can change the water coming from your showerhead into seven different colors!
Mrs. Monday Morning Gym Rat: “Ooh, dear, look at this, it’s a bowl within a bowl! You can separate the milk from the cereal in the same piece of plastic. We’re never going to eat soggy cheerios ever again!”
Cut to furry jackass kicking Mrs. Monday morning in the temple removing her from the face of this earth. I have to get off this plane and crawl into a bed that feels familiar to me tonight, if not, I’m going to say an excited greeting to my friend Jack on the other side of the plane and hope that they take me away in cuffs and jacket.
I am Jack’s withered subconscious understanding of real life.