I’ve been hearing a lot about US travel lately. And how it sucks.
Me being a man of the people. You, being the person. I decided to visit US travel, and see just how bad he sucks.
Here’s about where things go nosedive.
Whilst enroute from Munich, with the primary target Washington Dullas, apparently it started to “sprinkle,” along the east coast. Hence all those erratic, evasive maneuvers just off the coast of your country.
There’s really no way to lead into this gracefully, so I’ll just jump right in. We ran out of gas.
I know, huh?
I’m not going to name who I was flying with, but it rhymes with Schmu-nited.
Fast-forward to a non-emergency landing in Richmond, Virginia, where I do my best to locate on the above map. Ok. I don’t know where Virginia is. But it wasn’t where my connecting flight was departing from.
It also wasn’t where we were going to depart the plane from either. Port-of-Entry or not, I and 300 of my fellow passengers was hungry. Thirsty too. And my Port-of-Exit was stirring with emotion from the spinach omelette I had for late afternoon lunch as I laughed and cried my way through the hit motion picture, Blades of Glory.
As we were parked out in the middle of the airfield, cut off from reason and fresh air as they filled our tank with some gas, I couldn’t help but notice just how fu*king ugly your flight attendants are. Also, I was hungry. So I decided to play the Atari version of Brick Breaker on my Blackberry. You may or may know this game, but it’s mind-numbing. It’s like an episode of The View.
Anyway, you’re now reading the bl*g of a champion. Not like those other pussies who throw winning touchdowns, or those that win 7 Tour de Frances with one testicle. I’m talking about a true, odds defying champion who was stuck on what was supposed to be a 9 hour flight that turned into 13 hours with a bunch of little bastard children running around the cabin in an elevated ADHD state of euphoria while the rest of those young and old stooped towards the floor in a hypoglycemic state. That’s right, bitches. High score of 14585.
14585.
Hero.
I would’ve been more enthusiastic about my record run on Brick Breaker, but my blood sugar was too low. I hadn’t the energy. So, I reclined my Business Class seat, and took a celebratory nap.
Me being a man of the people. You, being the person. I decided to visit US travel, and see just how bad he sucks.
Here’s about where things go nosedive.
Whilst enroute from Munich, with the primary target Washington Dullas, apparently it started to “sprinkle,” along the east coast. Hence all those erratic, evasive maneuvers just off the coast of your country.
There’s really no way to lead into this gracefully, so I’ll just jump right in. We ran out of gas.
I know, huh?
I’m not going to name who I was flying with, but it rhymes with Schmu-nited.
Fast-forward to a non-emergency landing in Richmond, Virginia, where I do my best to locate on the above map. Ok. I don’t know where Virginia is. But it wasn’t where my connecting flight was departing from.
It also wasn’t where we were going to depart the plane from either. Port-of-Entry or not, I and 300 of my fellow passengers was hungry. Thirsty too. And my Port-of-Exit was stirring with emotion from the spinach omelette I had for late afternoon lunch as I laughed and cried my way through the hit motion picture, Blades of Glory.
As we were parked out in the middle of the airfield, cut off from reason and fresh air as they filled our tank with some gas, I couldn’t help but notice just how fu*king ugly your flight attendants are. Also, I was hungry. So I decided to play the Atari version of Brick Breaker on my Blackberry. You may or may know this game, but it’s mind-numbing. It’s like an episode of The View.
Anyway, you’re now reading the bl*g of a champion. Not like those other pussies who throw winning touchdowns, or those that win 7 Tour de Frances with one testicle. I’m talking about a true, odds defying champion who was stuck on what was supposed to be a 9 hour flight that turned into 13 hours with a bunch of little bastard children running around the cabin in an elevated ADHD state of euphoria while the rest of those young and old stooped towards the floor in a hypoglycemic state. That’s right, bitches. High score of 14585.
14585.
Hero.
I would’ve been more enthusiastic about my record run on Brick Breaker, but my blood sugar was too low. I hadn’t the energy. So, I reclined my Business Class seat, and took a celebratory nap.
