Updates have been complicated by my trip to the ass end of nowhere. This makes my usual riffs on important things like superheroes more difficult than usual. Instead, enjoy these reheated observations from my flight.
Security seems rather adamant about keeping people from joining the mile high club. I’ve never seen a more disappointed pair of teenagers in my life. Better luck next time.
The 747 is a cattle car in the sky. Its image as anything else is a miracle of modern marketing.
I have a seat near the wings. I keep glancing out the windows in hope that one of the gremlins from The Twilight Zone will pop up. No such luck.
This is not a sandwich. This is a parody of a sandwich, put together by the culinary equivalent of George Carlin. This is a biting satire of the very idea of flavor. I hope it wins an Emmy.
I’m sure glad that I have this inflatable cushion in the event of a crash. Otherwise I could be in real trouble.
I was never afraid of flying. This is distinct from every other member of my family, and a few of my siblings. I don’t think I’m any more intelligent than them. I simply have less to live for.
Whatever their intentions, the Wright Brothers are traitors to the cause of human happiness. We should cut their names out of history textbooks.
I hope we get hijacked. Con Air has convinced me that I have enough chops to save Air Force One, let alone some pissant Air Jamaica flight. We should show more action films in schools, it’s good for self-esteem.
I’m not saying they pissed in this orange soda. I’m saying that prior to the flight, they pissed into the metaphysical concept of orange soda, and I will never be able to enjoy another glass of it in this universe. Thanks.
Allow me to raise the stakes: I bet I could hijack this plane. The passengers look like docile lemmings, plus the Air Marshal is doughy-looking with an expression not unlike the mentally handicapped. If I was a terrorist, you people would be doomed.
A Pastor sits in front. I wonder if he’d be dismayed if we hit an angel, or relieved to find he hasn’t wasted his life.
Every time I fly, I think that the beauty of breaking through the cloud bank makes the whole experience worthwhile. The random-screening-for-darkies at the airport, the price gouging with luggage weight, and the repetition of the whole process on the way back seem worth it when I go through what feels like the gate to another world. For a moment, the pop culture image of a heaven made of clouds makes sense. Then lunch arrives.
I’m going to have my funeral on an airplane. I want everyone else to be as pissed off about my death as I am.