“Would you like a drink?” I pause my i-pod and look the over-waxed, flamboyant airline steward square in the face. I enunciate slowly, “Scotch. Two rocks.” “Coming right up, sir. We’re going to be taking off in a few moments, so please put your headset away.” “Got it,” I snatch.
Headset? Who says “headset” anymore? This is 2009. “Oh yes, Queeny McBottom, as soon as my cassette is done rewinding, I’ll be sure to stow my headset.” This faggot is only 25, max, and has taken on the language of the aging, aggressive water buffalo tribe better known as the Airline Attendants Union where hairstyles and vocabulary do not progress past 1987.
They are evil and need to be destroyed.
I should know. I spend a lot of time on planes. I fly 45 weeks a year and have ass-kissing status on every airline in the greater 48. Due to my proverbial timeshare on American Airlines flight 1542 with service to Boston, I find myself in first class more often than not. And here I am. Seat 1B. I’m the first to get on and off the plane, you pedestrian motherfuckers.
The first class attendants tend to be more relaxed and therefore friendlier than their cattle-herding countercows in the back. After all, the first-class attendants only have 12 assholes to wipe versus 100. I don’t want them to feel too privileged, so I make them work. Always remember where you came from. For instance, I like to pretend I’m sleeping and knock over my ceramic ramekin of warm nuts into the aisle only to be followed by an attendant closing her US Magazine and scrambling to clean up the molten peanuts with long, audible sighs. I still pretend to sleep but crack an insidious smile as if I were deep in a blissful dream about unicorns impaling retarded babies.
On days when I’m feeling particularly foul, I’ll pack a delicious wedge of French Epoisses and some stone wheat crackers to snack on during a long flight. I should mention that I am lactose intolerant and have a gluten allergy. Wash that heavenly little snack down with a coffee and by 35 minutes into the flight, I will obliterate the bathroom, which coincidentally, is directly across from the galley where the airline attendants gather to gossip about their meager, petty little existences. Oh yes mis amigos, cheese and wheat really blow me out hardcore. Fuck colonics, I’ve got a recipe that cleans out months of the residual bacteria clinging to my bowels from all the semen, drugs, and red meat I ingest.
I like to think of myself as Karma’s Little Helper, getting back at these assholes for pushing little old ladies down the aisle and keeping the airline industry from profitability with their blood-sucking union demands. It’s the little things, you know?
“Do you think we’ll ever get outta here?” Fuck. I hate this part. The fat ass next to me knows I’m awake and I can’t put my “headset” on. “I don’t know, it’s rush hour in Chicago and it’s raining. I’m not holding my breath.” “I’ll say,” he snorts back.
What is it about fat people? They really gross me out. It always hits me when I’m in line at a Starbucks and I’m forced to look across the bar at strangers while waiting for my drink to be made. I don't really know what to make of the 300lb+ ladies, for instance, who are ordering venti mochas or frappuccinos at 8:00am. I feel like I'd be doing them a disservice by not tapping them on the shoulder and saying, "Hi. Excuse me, I don't mean to interrupt your morning routine but did you know that drink has 650 calories in it? ...and well, let's not fool ourselves, you really should be watching what you eat. Let's trade that in for a nice hot green tea, shall we?" Isn't that what a good patriot should do? Isn’t it Christian? Shouldn't we watch out for the well-being of our fellow consumers? In fact, one day I was putting non-fat milk into my grande mild roast when this heifer rolled up to the counter and hip-checked me out of the way like there was a stash of secret pies behind the napkin dispenser. "There's no half and half", she grunted. I replied concernedly, "maybe someone's trying to tell you something", and exited stage right.
Fatty First Class starts an unsolicited conversation: “Last week I was stuck in Dallas, mechanical problem they said. No announcement until we’d already been on the runway for an hour and a half. What’s the matter with these people?” I respond with a it’s-not-funny-but-I’ll humor-you-half-pity laugh, “I don’t know, I guess it’s just the nature of the beast.”
Please shut up. Please shut up. Please shut up. Fucking shut up. Fuck.
“I remember back in the 90’s when you could walk up to the gate, find your seat and be in the air 10 minutes after you got to the airport. So what brings you to Chicago?” “Oh, I’m just connecting from Denver, on my way home to Boston.” “Boston, eh? Where’s the accent?” “I don’t have one. I’m educated.” “HA! Well then, you know, I used to work in Boston for a drug company.”
Fuck me. Here we go.
Fortunately, I’ve been in this situation 100 times before and I know how to keep him going for hours without ever having to divulge a single personal detail about myself. When I do, I usually lie. Not those hey-bro-let’s-lie-to-this-chick-at-the-bar genre of lies. More subtle, believable lies. Lies that make you think, “Oh, you know this guy is interesting. He has his shit together but seems like he’s on the wrong career path. I get a good feeling in my gut from this one. I think I’ll offer him a job.”
And that’s how I climb the corporate ladder, by getting these self-obsessed, generic blow-hards to offer me jobs. I merely coax them into to talking about themselves and magically deceive them into thinking that I’m the exact person they were at my age. It’s quite easy. I’ve made a lot of money doing it. Not like, penthouse-in-the-sky money, but a good sized-suitcase full of money. I crossed the $100,000 threshold on my W-2 for the first time at age 23. Now, at the ripe and grizzly old age of 30, I have a handful of properties, a healthy savings account, and a job title usually afforded to douche bags 15 years my senior. I can handle this shithead.
“Oh, so you’re in pharma. What do you think about the drug Merck has in the pipeline?” I fake interest. “You follow Merck? Don’t even get me started…” Every pharmaceutical company in the world has a new drug in the pipeline. That’s what they fucking do.
Engaging powerful people requires knowing a microcosm of each industry. It cost me a $65,000 piece of paper from business school to learn that. Most of my friends are the opposite of me; they care about integrity, benevolence, lactaid. They want to change the world, get respect for their artwork, have anal sex with someone they love.
They earn the square route of my paycheck.
They coo, “How did you become so successful?” “You are so ambitious.” “I can’t believe what you’ve accomplished at your age.” “Oh just a lot of elbow grease and good work ethic”, I respond. In reality, I make money via manipulation and lies. You may think that sounds harsh but please, hold your judgment. I’m not stealing diamonds from holocaust victims; I’m just trying to make a little coin. Everyone could make $1,000 a day if they took off their rose colored glasses, flushed their ideals down the toilet, and learned how to abuse the rape-and-pillage economic system we know as capitalism. I owe little to my academic record, my militancy, my knowledge of complex financial transactions, and more to my whiteness, my toothy smile, and my upbringing in a proselytizing cult.
I don’t believe everything happens for a reason but I believe that I can mind-fuck through the chaos, doggy style.
Headset? Who says “headset” anymore? This is 2009. “Oh yes, Queeny McBottom, as soon as my cassette is done rewinding, I’ll be sure to stow my headset.” This faggot is only 25, max, and has taken on the language of the aging, aggressive water buffalo tribe better known as the Airline Attendants Union where hairstyles and vocabulary do not progress past 1987.
They are evil and need to be destroyed.
I should know. I spend a lot of time on planes. I fly 45 weeks a year and have ass-kissing status on every airline in the greater 48. Due to my proverbial timeshare on American Airlines flight 1542 with service to Boston, I find myself in first class more often than not. And here I am. Seat 1B. I’m the first to get on and off the plane, you pedestrian motherfuckers.
The first class attendants tend to be more relaxed and therefore friendlier than their cattle-herding countercows in the back. After all, the first-class attendants only have 12 assholes to wipe versus 100. I don’t want them to feel too privileged, so I make them work. Always remember where you came from. For instance, I like to pretend I’m sleeping and knock over my ceramic ramekin of warm nuts into the aisle only to be followed by an attendant closing her US Magazine and scrambling to clean up the molten peanuts with long, audible sighs. I still pretend to sleep but crack an insidious smile as if I were deep in a blissful dream about unicorns impaling retarded babies.
On days when I’m feeling particularly foul, I’ll pack a delicious wedge of French Epoisses and some stone wheat crackers to snack on during a long flight. I should mention that I am lactose intolerant and have a gluten allergy. Wash that heavenly little snack down with a coffee and by 35 minutes into the flight, I will obliterate the bathroom, which coincidentally, is directly across from the galley where the airline attendants gather to gossip about their meager, petty little existences. Oh yes mis amigos, cheese and wheat really blow me out hardcore. Fuck colonics, I’ve got a recipe that cleans out months of the residual bacteria clinging to my bowels from all the semen, drugs, and red meat I ingest.
I like to think of myself as Karma’s Little Helper, getting back at these assholes for pushing little old ladies down the aisle and keeping the airline industry from profitability with their blood-sucking union demands. It’s the little things, you know?
“Do you think we’ll ever get outta here?” Fuck. I hate this part. The fat ass next to me knows I’m awake and I can’t put my “headset” on. “I don’t know, it’s rush hour in Chicago and it’s raining. I’m not holding my breath.” “I’ll say,” he snorts back.
What is it about fat people? They really gross me out. It always hits me when I’m in line at a Starbucks and I’m forced to look across the bar at strangers while waiting for my drink to be made. I don't really know what to make of the 300lb+ ladies, for instance, who are ordering venti mochas or frappuccinos at 8:00am. I feel like I'd be doing them a disservice by not tapping them on the shoulder and saying, "Hi. Excuse me, I don't mean to interrupt your morning routine but did you know that drink has 650 calories in it? ...and well, let's not fool ourselves, you really should be watching what you eat. Let's trade that in for a nice hot green tea, shall we?" Isn't that what a good patriot should do? Isn’t it Christian? Shouldn't we watch out for the well-being of our fellow consumers? In fact, one day I was putting non-fat milk into my grande mild roast when this heifer rolled up to the counter and hip-checked me out of the way like there was a stash of secret pies behind the napkin dispenser. "There's no half and half", she grunted. I replied concernedly, "maybe someone's trying to tell you something", and exited stage right.
Fatty First Class starts an unsolicited conversation: “Last week I was stuck in Dallas, mechanical problem they said. No announcement until we’d already been on the runway for an hour and a half. What’s the matter with these people?” I respond with a it’s-not-funny-but-I’ll humor-you-half-pity laugh, “I don’t know, I guess it’s just the nature of the beast.”
Please shut up. Please shut up. Please shut up. Fucking shut up. Fuck.
“I remember back in the 90’s when you could walk up to the gate, find your seat and be in the air 10 minutes after you got to the airport. So what brings you to Chicago?” “Oh, I’m just connecting from Denver, on my way home to Boston.” “Boston, eh? Where’s the accent?” “I don’t have one. I’m educated.” “HA! Well then, you know, I used to work in Boston for a drug company.”
Fuck me. Here we go.
Fortunately, I’ve been in this situation 100 times before and I know how to keep him going for hours without ever having to divulge a single personal detail about myself. When I do, I usually lie. Not those hey-bro-let’s-lie-to-this-chick-at-the-bar genre of lies. More subtle, believable lies. Lies that make you think, “Oh, you know this guy is interesting. He has his shit together but seems like he’s on the wrong career path. I get a good feeling in my gut from this one. I think I’ll offer him a job.”
And that’s how I climb the corporate ladder, by getting these self-obsessed, generic blow-hards to offer me jobs. I merely coax them into to talking about themselves and magically deceive them into thinking that I’m the exact person they were at my age. It’s quite easy. I’ve made a lot of money doing it. Not like, penthouse-in-the-sky money, but a good sized-suitcase full of money. I crossed the $100,000 threshold on my W-2 for the first time at age 23. Now, at the ripe and grizzly old age of 30, I have a handful of properties, a healthy savings account, and a job title usually afforded to douche bags 15 years my senior. I can handle this shithead.
“Oh, so you’re in pharma. What do you think about the drug Merck has in the pipeline?” I fake interest. “You follow Merck? Don’t even get me started…” Every pharmaceutical company in the world has a new drug in the pipeline. That’s what they fucking do.
Engaging powerful people requires knowing a microcosm of each industry. It cost me a $65,000 piece of paper from business school to learn that. Most of my friends are the opposite of me; they care about integrity, benevolence, lactaid. They want to change the world, get respect for their artwork, have anal sex with someone they love.
They earn the square route of my paycheck.
They coo, “How did you become so successful?” “You are so ambitious.” “I can’t believe what you’ve accomplished at your age.” “Oh just a lot of elbow grease and good work ethic”, I respond. In reality, I make money via manipulation and lies. You may think that sounds harsh but please, hold your judgment. I’m not stealing diamonds from holocaust victims; I’m just trying to make a little coin. Everyone could make $1,000 a day if they took off their rose colored glasses, flushed their ideals down the toilet, and learned how to abuse the rape-and-pillage economic system we know as capitalism. I owe little to my academic record, my militancy, my knowledge of complex financial transactions, and more to my whiteness, my toothy smile, and my upbringing in a proselytizing cult.
I don’t believe everything happens for a reason but I believe that I can mind-fuck through the chaos, doggy style.
