Learn How To Fly, Rubes; Why Air Travel is the Worst


Old couple in front of me in line for security as I attempt to hold on to my last shreds of sanity.

Young couple with a toddler and an infant and another one on the way.

Dude with WAY too many devices (may or may not include your humble correspondent).


Get. The fuck. Out. Of my way. You silly fucks.

I flew to Boston on Thursday. Some business, some pleasure, all necessary. ANYway, after driving around for 20 minutes in the economy lot (shut up; dude’s gotta eat), I make my way through the unwashed masses and finally arrive at the ticket counter. Finally unshackled from that delightful journey, I approach the security line. Cautiously.

Cautiously not by choice, but because the FUCKING ASSHOLES in front of me, all able-bodied adults, are not willing to get a move on and get through the most miserable part of flying anywhere.

Finally, I make the line. Nobody’s in it, so we move quickly. This is nice. Relaxing. Finally, I get my ticket and ID checked, and I’m on my way.

I get behind two old people. Rubes. They obviously don’t fly often, and why would they? They’ve likely got a camper, and a dog, and they drive across the country to see their grandkids with their fucking “World’s Best Grandpa” license plate holder. They giggle in line while putting their stuff — slowly — into the bins and moving — slowly — towards the scanner.

Then, my head exploded.

Folks, nobody likes being in line. I’d venture a guess that even Grandma and Grandpa Fucktard didn’t want to be there (although, the way they were laughing and joking throughout made me think they enjoyed the uniqueness that only a trip through security at one of the world’s largest airports can bring). Let’s move it along.

Otherwise my brain juice is going to get on you when you make my fucking head explode. And nobody wants that.

On my way home, traveling through Boston’s Logan Airport, it was night and day different from my experience in Kansas DIA. There was zero line at the Southwest counter. No line at the security checkpoint. No line at Dunkin Donuts (mmm, strawberry frosted, Boston kreme and a large black coffee; CALORIES FTW!). I was in the first boarding group. Things were going my way.

Then, disaster struck.

I was carrying a hanging bag for a suit. I’m perfectly fine with folding it gently in two, then stowing it in an overhead bin. So I did that, on top of someone’s laptop bag. It was fine. The he-might-be-a-little-bit-slow-but-makes-up-for-it-with-a-constant-goofy-grin flight attendant offered to find a spot for MY laptop bag, and that help was appreciated; I was sitting in the bulkhead row.

And this dickbag puts my laptop bag on the edge of the bin, pinned between the door and another suitcase. And — in a moment that surprised absolutely no one — when someone opened the bin, my laptop bag and other accoutrements came tumbling out and onto the head of my neighbor one row back. Then to the floor, where it arrived with a characteristic “THUD.”

So. Good times. I let it go. Guy was trying his best, and I get that it’s tough to turn flights around the way they do on Southwest. I get it.

But later… oh my god, later.

Our flight attendant, who looks like a thumb and giggles like a schoolgirl, goes to put something back in the bin where my suit is resting peacefully, still pressed and in decent shape, and proceeds to JAM IT BACK IN THE BIN, almost punching the fucker into  a tight space.

I. Lost. My. Shit.


“I was just…”

“You’re just crushing my suit. Dude. It’s a hanger bag. Maybe it shouldn’t be crumpled into a fucking ball for takeoff and landing. It was fine this entire five hour flight, and now you’ve taken it upon yourself to cram it into a crevice — using your fists — because… because… Well I’m still not sure why.”

“I need room for this gentleman’s bag.”

“So lift out my hanger bag, put his bag in, then put my bag on top. Like it was for this entire fucking flight. Jesus.”

I don’t like flying. And that’s a shame, as I used to love flying. When I was a kid, flying on an airplane was still a glamorous experience, even for a kid flying on his mom’s buddy pass. Now, it’s like a war of attrition. You’re doing battle with numerous foes, from the people in line to the people at the counter, to unseen combatants like the baggage handlers down on the ground in either city. And in the end you arrive beaten and bloody, your suit crunched to shit, exhausted and in need of a shot, or a nap, or both.

I went with “both.”

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