Stupid Wright Brothers...
Like a good little citizen, I showed up early. I got my tickets from the kiosk, which is a funny word to say, and headed towards my gate.
The security checkpoint for me is like one big magic trick. I eyed the security checkpoint like an escape artist, planning the right time to regurgitate the key and free myself from their handcuffs. Ironically, though, it’s usually the key that sets off the metal detector...
First, I mentioned to the closest security professional, “Hey, uhh, my leg is made almost entirely of metal. I will set off the detector, and I won’t be using any wires or mirrors.”
Luckily this particular trick does not require the use of a white Bengal tiger.
I dejectedly trudged through the gate, leading me into the grey area beyond the fourth amendment. I gestured in a “There you have it, folks” manner when it lit up like a Christmas tree. Though, in retrospect, that probably wasn’t the best time to pull a quarter from behind his ear and say, “I see someone else is hiding something!”
I was herded into a waiting pen in the center with all the other potential national security threats. People made of significantly less metal passed by, looking at me and judging, “I wonder what he did.” I just smiled and mouthed, “Watch your back.”
Standing there inside in the fortress of impenetrable security tape, I realized I was being made an example. I was the sacrificial lamb today at Bush Intercontinental Airport. And if they had to saw me in half here in the terminal as an offering to the gods, they would. So when the approaching guard put on rubber gloves, I thought to myself, “That is not a good sign.”
The guard was nice though, only giving me two cavity searches, instead of the standard three. He found a bouquet of flowers and a string of colored handkerchiefs.
He did, however, tug repeatedly on my belt; peering down to see what else I was packing. I panicked a moment… trying to remember if I had left the white dove at home. Now would not be a good time for little Andy to fly the coop. Then I thought, “Maybe the guard sees his card down there,” silently hoping it wasn’t the kings of hearts.
I ended up just doing the “Jedi mind” trick so I could be on my way.
Then it was time to get on the plane, where all my phobias collided and jockeyed for position as the cause of my approaching anxiety attack. Fear of heights. Fear of small spaces. Fear of being scared. Fear of dying. And fear of dying before I find out what the hell is going on with that show Lost.
I lucked out too because the seat on one side of me was empty. And on the other side of the aisle was a hot girl. So in the event that the plane did decide to fall from the sky, she would be there for those last few moments of passion. That’s how I get women to make out with me. I wait until a plane is crashing and she says, “Oh, what the hell.”
Plus the guy in front of me realized he was seated next to a woman and her litter of children and immediately bailed. For all I know he ‘chuted out shortly after takeoff. I don’t care if you’re Mr. Rogers, Ned Flanders wouldn’t want any par-diddly-art of that mess.
I wanna thank Apple for sponsoring my little trip to Colorado this weekend. Sweet sweet iPod provided me a soundtrack to the cruel human experiment that is air travel. I sat there the full two hours with my earpieces in and my crash helmet on (which looks remarkably similar to a beer helmet) sipping Red Bull from convenient tubes, rockin’ out to Aerosmith. I know what you’re thinking, “Aerosmith? What’re you, thirty-two and a half?” Hey, the shuffle feature felt it was appropriate, ok?
Then the flight attendants got up front and did their little song and dance. It was like a parade of bad neckwear, all ascots and scarves. Confetti rained down from the ceiling as Betsy motioned to the emergency exits for her one thousandth time. They even reminded us that our seat cushions serve as flotation devices. But let’s be honest, if we had crashed into anything, it would have been a mountain. Pressing the ass prints of thousands of other passengers to your face isn’t gonna help when you’re performing a nose dive at 500 mph into the beautiful Rocky Mountains. Says it right there on the safety card.
Then, not to be outdone, the pilot gets on the horn and starts taking us through his whole morning. I swear they require a meteorology class in flight school, because he was throwing out all kinds of wind speeds and barometric pressures. And he’s jibber jabbering about the flight plan. “We’re going to swing by Dallas. Might pass over Oklahoma…” This is a non-stop flight to Denver, not the local tour down Hollywood Blvd. I don’t need you taking your eye off the controls so you can point out where Katie Holmes lost her damn mind.
I wonder if the captain of the space shuttle gives them a little run down of what’s going up. “Ok, today we’re going to be exiting the Earth’s atmosphere. I’m going to be taking you straight up. We might experience a little turbulence, but that’s just the rockets detaching themselves. Aaaand it looks like clear skies in space. Thank you for flying with NASA.”
“We are experiencing turbulence…” Experiencing. Like that little euphemism is going to ease your anxiety about being in a flying bus that’s shaking you like the British nanny.
Then the steward-attendants came by with the food cart, both of them full of creepy enthusiasm only Bob Ross could muster. (Not to mention I took a glancing blow from the cart that may affect my ERA numbers in fantasy baseball.) She leans over, her scarf tickling my ear, “Would you like something to drink?” I just kind of gave her the none-for-me-thanks head shake when I really want to say, “No way, if I have that thimble of soda I’ll be up all night.” But I was sorry. I should have reconsidered. What was I thinking? Because after I finished my two pretzels, I was parched.
And then it was over. We took off, we did the safety hokey pokey, we heard a cute story from the pilot, and we had snacks. It’s like kindergarten for grown-ups.
As we landed, all I could think about was the plane a few weeks ago that landed with the front tire completely engulfed in flames. I closed my eyes and hoped my last words weren’t going to be, “Do I have to take off my shoes?”
The pilot hadn’t started drinking yet, so we landed safe and sound. And there it was. The moving walkway. I would pay 10 tickets at the local fair for this ride. I just started speed walking. I felt like the Six Million Dollar Man, reconstructed to walk faster than any man has ever walked. I was high-fiving people as we zoomed by. I’m running in place in slow motion, confusing the hell out of toddlers. If I’m ever rich, all the floors in my mansion will be conveyor belts. One big remote and you can stand perfectly still and just glide your way to the can.
I got off the very long treadmill and I almost got run down by a transport vehicle. I was this close to being road kill in the middle of a hallway ‘cause some granny said step on it. I made it all this way, survived the flight, only to nearly get run down by a golf cart on my way to the escalator. Luckily I saw it coming, so I grabbed the nearest hot chick and we just started making out. Guard got so confused that he swerved and ran over a terrorist. I was awarded the Medal of Accidental Honor. I pinned it on my shirt next to my plastic pilot wings.
