I hate packing for trips. I get distracted and forget things. I can’t tell you how many times I have had to freeball it wearing sneakers without socks while travelling.
Leaving from Long Beach Airport instead of LAX seemed like a really good idea, despite the fact that I live less than a mile from LAX.
First of all, the Long Beach flight was $20 less. In retrospect, I really feel like a cheap douche for allowing that to make the decision for me. Besides, even though my girlfriend, my usual ride, was out of town helping to build a town in the desert, my mom offered to drop me off.
However, my folks decided after I booked the flight that a cruise to Alaska sounded better than dropping me off and booked it.
I would complain, but given the choice, I would have left them at the curb for the same thing.
While waiting in line at the airport, there are two girls in the security line ahead of me that are either strippers or want to be strippers. I think they would do well. They seem to have that quality of cheap slutiness that I love in a good stripper. This is a girl that instinctively realizes that an unasked for happy ending to a lap dance gets a much bigger tip.
Broken field runners are born, not made.
From listening in on their conversation, (no you didn’t – yes I did), they are planning to make a scene should they get the advanced pat down from TSA.
But not the scene you think.
The plan, as I understand it, is to begin loudly getting into the pat down as if the entire procedure is a wild sexual experience.
The strippers are beginning to grow on me.
They are planning on opting out of the full body xray.
However, even from where I am behind them in line, I can see that there is no full body xray machine. Long Beach doesn’t have them.
This is not phasing the strippers.
This is how it went down. The girls walked thru the metal detector without a beep and then told the TSA officer that they wanted to opt out, and would rather be patted down. Giggling the whole time.
The TSA agent was a husky woman that may be involved with MMA fighting. There is a “I am being nice, but don’t fuck with me.” look on her face.
“Can’t opt out of an xray we don’t have, grab your shoes and enjoy your flight, move along.”
It was one of those barks of command that makes you follow it immediately if you are not prepared.
The strippers shuffled off, thoroughly bummed. I felt a little let down that I would not get to what the fake public orgasm.
Fake or not, that type of thing is hot. For example, I do not think Meg Ryan is hot, but the scene in “When Harry met Sally” when she faked the orgasm gives me a semi just thinking about it.
I went thru security with no more hassles. The strippers were no where to be seen.
First question. What possesses a 500 pound man to travel on a budget airline with little skinny ass seats?
Second question. Where does a 500 pound man sit while flying?
Right next to me, evidently.
I spent an hour and a half buried alive on my way to visit my kids today.
I read an article a few months back about some huge guy that was out raged over having to pay for a second seat on a flight. The article raged about the inhumanity and embarrassment the airline caused this poor man.
I get it now.
To use an old line, the shadow of this man’s ass weighed 50 pounds.
Mean? Yes, Funny? Questionable. Is it a fact? I think so.
After a short conversation, it turns out that Jaba the Frequent Flier has a small plumbing business.
How the hell does a 500 pound plumber crawl around under the house?
The simple answer is one of physics and reality. He doesn’t.
I didn’t ask, he offered the info. Brand new apprentices will crawl around under the house and install your plumbing rather than the portly plumber. Plumbing put together but novices, after some quick instruction.
A really expensive form of DIY job. Except that when they leave, you are left with a plumbing job that has a timer on it as to when, not if, it goes wrong and pumps shit onto your lawn, and a whole lot of twinkie wrappers left at the side of the house.
At first, I was all excited about the flight. It seems that Jet Blue has installed all seats with tvs on the back of the headrest.
I can sit at home and flip thru over 250 channels for an hour before I realize there is nothing to watch. I don’t know what possessed me to think that Jet Blue would suddenly crack that code and be able to provide non-suckable programing.
As I dig out from the flesh burial that Jaba provided, I realized that tv would not be necessary.
The strippers were sitting in front of me.
A complimentary beverage was provided. The girls finally got the chance to opt out of something. A soda. They ordered white wine. It came in these little single serving bottles. The really interesting part was, that as soon as the stewardess moved out of eye view, the girls pulled little bottles out of their bags. How they got them was a mystery, either TSA didn’t notice or the little terminal store was selling wine that I did not see.
Wine is normally sipped. However, smuggled wine, drank by sloppy blondes mid-flight, is guzzled like cold medicine before school.
In short order, the blondes were drunk.
Thats when the discussion began.
Evidently, blonde number one is dating a gentleman with an enormous penis. Her description of it was both loud and used comparisons that you would never associate with genitalia.
Having a penis the length of a river bass may be an impressive thing, but I have no idea. I don’t like sea food.
And maybe the ladies out there can help me out on this one, but is having a penis shaped “Just like a cat’s head” really something you want? I am not a woman, but even I winced at that one.
The rest of the flight was a combination of watching various people around the strippers glare at them, no one manned up and told them to keep it down, and a continual motion of trying to get out from behind a wall of Jaba’s flesh that I suspect was his arm. It is like treading water, thick clammy water that smells vaguely of old spice and potato chips.
$20s in savings turned out to be pretty damned expensive.
Not all savings are in cash.