Hour one: Coach seat. I’m no primadonna, I’m just large. Nicole Richie would be uncomfortable in this seat. It’s like trying to jam your ass into a lunchbox. I am currently occupying seat 22H (and part of 22J) on a 767 for a 6 hour flight. Keep the food, keep the service, I just want the business class seat. I thought we were getting fatter as a nation? When is someone going to introduce a coach-class seat that was not designed for leprechauns?
Hour two: My ass is numb….so numb, it could be used as a pin cushion for knitting needles. I’ve finished my 16th cup of coffee in hopes of shutting down my kidneys, thus forcing the plane to make an emergency landing in Colorado. Need to switch to decaf….hands shaking.
Hour three: No luck with the kidney thing, although I did manage to pressure wash the bathroom. It seems that this plane once had an orange interior about 3 coats of paint ago.
Hour four: During my third colorful hallucination, I believe someone tried to sell me food, but I’m not 100% positive. I remember a fish or a fish-like creature saying something about a turkey wrap, while it waved a cardboard box under my nose.
Hour five: At least I get to sit right next to the galley and enjoy the fragrance of the hot delicious cookies they are baking for the first and business class cabins.
Hour six: It seems that luck has finally smiled down upon me. According to one of the flight attendants, San Francisco International Airport is staffed with an expert passenger extraction team. I feel confident that this highly trained team, armed with a 9 foot prybar and a drum of Crisco will be able to free me from this seat with a minimum of bruising. They have already foamed the runway and have a proctologist on call to remove my iPod.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
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