Monday, July 03, 2006
Things That Happen to Zombie in Airports
I like to travel. It makes me feel fancy-dancy and special (not short bus special, though - I save that for the really special occasions, like when I put my shoes on the wrong feet or walk out into traffic) and all of that happy crappy.
What I don't like, however, are airports.
Okay, to be more accurate, airports don't like me. I have yet in my life to have an uneventful plane escapade and I figure that if it hasn't happened yet, it never, ever, ever will.
So, if I may, I'd like to discuss a few things that cause me problems at airports.
1.) Etickets blow goats. Oh yes. Sure, ordering tickets online is all convenient and nice and stuff, but when it comes time for me to actually check in and all of that nonsense, something will inevitably go very, very wrong.
This time, on the way to Seattle, it was that the seats my spawn and I were assigned happened to be nowhere near each other. When I pointed out this problem to the check-in agent, she tells me I need to tell the agent at the gate.
I do that. They dick around forever and I am annoyed and then they finally decide it's okay for me to sit with my two very young children.
And then? It happens again on the way home! Joy!
And then again when flying home from St. Louis!
Does Northwest have a problem with giving me a seat I fucking paid for? I think they might. I think Northwest has some sort of vendetta against me, oh yes, otherwise they wouldn't annoy me like that when all I want to do is cram my fat ass into a seat and hurtle through the air at impossibly fast speeds while people snort and sneeze and bother the hell out of me. Yeah, that's right, Northwest, I got your number right here, baby. You can't fool me. Well-played this time around, Northwest, well-played indeed. But next time? Oh next time, I will get you back. I will. Count on it.
And now that I'm done addressing a faceless corporate entity as if it can hear me/understand me/give a shit, let's move on to...
2.) All cab drivers must die. Right now. Right away. Really quick. Die! My spawn and I arrived home from Seattle at roughly Asscrack of Dawn O'Clock. Okay, it was more like 3 in the morning. Same difference. We do that thing that Detroit Metro makes you do every damned time, because you never, ever learn, even if you've flown through there 900 times in your short, yet unbearably wonderful and sexy life, where they tell you your luggage is at Carousel 10 and you wait there for an hour only to have someone casually saunter by and tell you all that your luggage is actually, in fact, at Carousel 3, way the hell over there, and it's been sitting there for 55 of of the 60 minutes you've been waiting at Carousel 10.
And then you walk way the hell over there to Carousel 3 and get your crap and you hate everything so much and you make a mental note just to wait in the middle of the room next time until you see bags spewing forth from whatever conveyor belt so you don't do that Carousel 10/Carousel 3/Carousel Wormhole/Let's Do the Luggage Warp Again bullshit thang that you do.
Again, I must say, "well-played." Well-played, Detroit Metro, well-played indeed. But I will get you next time. Except I will forget that mental note by tomorrow and next time I fly through DTW, we'll do that whole damned thing again. It's a vicious cycle I cannot break free of.
You know how sometimes you feel like stapling your hair to the floor just to prevent yourself from doing something stupid repeatedly? You don't? Good, glad you're coming with me on that one.
Anyway! Cab drivers must die! Because it is 3 AM and I have tons of heavy bags and two hyperactive children who are still running on PST even though I informed them that we were back on EST and they should therefore be immediately exhausted, and I need a cab to get home.
So I drag my Caravan of Craptasticness over to where the cabs live. And lo, a cab is there. So happy. The cab driver says to me, in broken English, since it is a universal law that no cab driver can ever speak unbroken English, "Where is you to go?"
"Ypsilanti," I inform him. And then, as an afterthought, "You can take my credit card, right?"
"Oh no. No. Cash only," he says to me, with a horrified look in his eye.
"Whaddaya mean 'cash only'?" I inquire, because isn't that a credit card taking machine sitting there in the cab? Right there in plain view, along with a sticker on the window with the logos of the various credit cards they take? Well, isn't it?
"Cash only! No card! Cash only!"
"Wait a minute...so you're not going to take me home because you, for some stupid reason, are refusing to take my perfectly good Mastercard?"
"CASH ONLY!" he says, getting agitated.
"Well, what the hell. It's 3 in the morning, I have two small kids here, you are the only cab in sight, and you won't take my fucking card?"
"CASH ONLY, MA'AM! CASH ONLY!"
Now, y'all may remember that I hate being called "ma'am." I know this guy had no way of knowing that, but his whole CASH ONLY thing coupled with the "ma'am" just ruined my fucking day all to bits and I lost it.
"Listen here, Habib. You will put my bags in your little white car and you will immediately drive myself, and my children, home to Ypsilanti, resulting in a 40 dollar fare WHICH I WILL PAY FOR WITH MY MASTERCARD, and then you will not get a tip, unless you count me telling you not to fuck with exhausted red-haired angry women with two small hyperactive children at 3 in the GODDAMNED MORNING as a tip. Are we clear?"
Halfway through this little speech, another cab, from the same company, no less, pulls up, and the driver, also a Habib, gets out of the car.
"Is there problem?" Habib #2 asks.
"This fuckwit won't take my credit card."
"CASH ONLY!" says Habib #1.
"Where you go? I take you there," says Habib #2.
"CASH ONLY!" hollers Habib #1.
"I take card," says Habib #2.
"In that case, I go to Ypsilanti and thank you very much," says yours truly.
Later in the cab, Habib #2 informs me that Habib #1 will get fired, since Habib #2 is going to tattle on him for refusing customers.
SO HAH. America and Freedom: 1. Habib #1: FUCKING ZERO. Clownshoes.
But it didn't end there, friends and neighbors, no, it did not. On my way home from St. Louis, we have the same problem. I ask if Habib #3 can take my card, on the offchance his little machine is broken, here I am, trying to be polite, kill 'em with kindness or maybe big knives, and he gives this world-weary sigh.
"Yes, I can take," says he.
"Well, you sure? Is there a problem?"
"No, no problem."
So we drive for a while. Then he tells me, in not-unbroken English, that every time a customer pays with a credit card, he has to pay the company %5. Then he gives me a big smile.
I ponder this for a moment, then say, "And what's that got to do with me?"
"Well, if you have cash..."
"I don't. And even if I did, after that little performance, I would pay with the card anyway."
"You want to know why?"
"Because whatever arrangement you have worked out with your little cab company has not got a goddamned thing to do with me and your weaselly little attempt at getting me to pay with a method I do not want to pay with has pissed me off. That's why. So just keep driving."
Yeah, I'm real friendly like that.
3.) Pregnant women piss me off. On the way home from St. Louis, I am just trying to relax, y'all. I got me a pop and my mp3 player and this really great book I am enjoying and I am just trying to chill. Is that so much to ask?
Apparently it is, because the woman behind me, while being enormously pregnant, not to mention loud and nasal, has two brats in tow, one of which is sitting directly behind me. This brat had to be 10 years old, and that means he was well past the age of reason and able to fucking take direction when told to sit still. But this little brat kept kicking my seat. Repeatedly. Rhythmically. As if we are keeping time to some pure funky 80s soul, even. But it is not Morris Day I have on my mp3 player, oh no, it is Sepultura, and this kid has probably got the theme to Barney, or Eight is Enough, or whatever it is the kids are into these days, playing in his tiny skull, so there is no need to kick my seat in time to any pure funky 80s soul, is there? I ask you.
I turn around and politely "ahem" at the mother. She glares at me. I arch a brow and return to my book. The kicking continues.
I ahem again. She glares some more. This continues for a while. Then the 10 Year Old What Was Apparently Raised By Impolite Wolves decides, for some ungodly reason, to leap into the air and land directly on the top of my seat, jerking me backward and ruining my enjoyment of a fine double-bass kick as offered to me by Fear Factory.
"Jesus!" I exclaim. I note that this child has managed to yank some hair out of my fucking head. I realize that this will not do.
I turn around and face Pregnant Woman of Despair. "Control your child," I say.
"We're not trying to bother you," she sneers. "They're little kids. What do you expect?"
"I expect a child that is roughly ten years old to know better... if he had a mother to teach him better, actually. That is what I expect."
"Traveling with little kids is hard!"
"That kid is not that little," I say. "And I am well aware how hard it is to travel with little kids. Which is why I bring things along to amuse them, and under no circumstances do I allow them to repeatedly kick anything. There's something you might want to consider."
"Bitch!" she says to me.
Which is true. I cannot fault her there. I am a bitch. But I am a bitch that doesn't want little sneakers drumming into her back at regular intervals and I will damned well make that known.
So I stand up. And turn around, just to make sure she's really listening. And apparently it works - either she realizes I mean business, or she is frightened of my Cannibal Corpse tank top, which happens to prominently feature the bloody skeleton of a fetus over the area where my uterus lives, which, what with her being pregnant and all, may have unnerved her slightly.
And for real, y'all, I will slap a pregnant woman if I have to. Don't think I won't. Someone should've slapped this woman a long time ago, is what I'm thinking, otherwise she'd know not to behave that way in public, or let her hellspawn behave that way, either.
I think that might be a job for Sean Connery, though, and also I think maybe the air marshals don't really like it when angry red-haired chicks in bloody fetus skeleton tank tops slap pregnant women on the airplane.
So I don't slap her. But I do give her a look that says I am more than willing to slap her if she doesn't knock off calling me names and also contain her heathen spawn, post haste.
"I'm sorry," she says. "Okay, kids, don't kick anymore."
"Thank you," I say, nicely, and sit back down. The old lady in the seat next to me pats my arm and whispers, "Good job."
America and Freedom: 1. Pregnant Bitches: FUCKING ZERO. Breeder.
And that is all I have to say about that right now.
Airports are out to get me. Or cab drivers/baggage claims/pregnant bitches/devil children/Northwest Airlines are out to get me. One of the two. If you ever think you might want to travel with me, I suggest you rethink that decision carefully. Shit will happen. It will.
link | posted by Zombie at 7:24 PM |
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