This next leg has been oozing bad ju ju since the beginning. Close to 90 minutes sitting on the plane in Frankfurt before being evacuated due to a security threat.
Except us Business Class folk.
Which is proof that money can buy you exemption.
And lap dances.
Which brings us to Caracas, Venezuela. Where, after spending another hour on the taxi way in a lightening storm, in a big metal tube with big metal wings, and an absolutely unforgettable approach down the Caracas coast, I bring you this: a post about my hair.
And the new shampoo I started using.
It’s like Baby Jesus himself squirts out a little schtickle of sky blue, anti-dandruff cranial holiness into my left hand, and guides this vestigial appendage up to my dome, promoting the marriage of an ordinary man’s rug with a common consumer product, resulting in the blessed offspring that I simply can’t keep my own hands out of. While that may seem an awkward analogy for those of you that have young children, I literally spent the last 11 hours playing with my own hair. It’s like running your fingers through a mixture of mid-western American fields of golden wheat and the ubiquitous back-warehouse sweatshop of the Thai silk manufacturing industry.
I know what you’re thinking: “After the inherent dangers of stampeding through southern Ontario suburbs and the northern xenophobic states of South Africa, why continue to subject us to mild anxiety and perverse curiosities of yet another rogue state visit?”
To which I say, “Neh. Touch my hair.”
This is Venezuela. Fu*k that. I’m transferring onto somewhere safe.
Except us Business Class folk.
Which is proof that money can buy you exemption.
And lap dances.
Which brings us to Caracas, Venezuela. Where, after spending another hour on the taxi way in a lightening storm, in a big metal tube with big metal wings, and an absolutely unforgettable approach down the Caracas coast, I bring you this: a post about my hair.
And the new shampoo I started using.
It’s like Baby Jesus himself squirts out a little schtickle of sky blue, anti-dandruff cranial holiness into my left hand, and guides this vestigial appendage up to my dome, promoting the marriage of an ordinary man’s rug with a common consumer product, resulting in the blessed offspring that I simply can’t keep my own hands out of. While that may seem an awkward analogy for those of you that have young children, I literally spent the last 11 hours playing with my own hair. It’s like running your fingers through a mixture of mid-western American fields of golden wheat and the ubiquitous back-warehouse sweatshop of the Thai silk manufacturing industry.
I know what you’re thinking: “After the inherent dangers of stampeding through southern Ontario suburbs and the northern xenophobic states of South Africa, why continue to subject us to mild anxiety and perverse curiosities of yet another rogue state visit?”
To which I say, “Neh. Touch my hair.”
This is Venezuela. Fu*k that. I’m transferring onto somewhere safe.
