Sunday, June 7, 2009

Ann Coulter Sucks...

I just had to title one of my 11th grade level writings this way, I could have titled it Rush Limbaugh loves his Man Boobs Massaged by Ann Coulter's Penis - but that was too many words, and probably would take up too much space - and it would essentially give away the real emotion behind how I am feeling these days about the political scene - I am not as educated as those two are, no where near as successful, but last time I checked, my addiction to prescription pain killers was in check, I was not a walking heart attack, and odds are I could get laid with someone if I tried (okay, the last one may be pushing it a bit)...

It has been a month since I actually sat down and tried to write anything - a complete and total thirty days of blurs - Sacramento, Jacksonville, Sea World, Atlanta, back to Sacramento, Washington State, the Yakima River, somewhere in the neighborhood of 40,000 sky miles and several beers later, here I am back in the travel saddle and feeling perky enough to write (perky as in Rush's Breasts - not Ann Coulters mind you, the only thing I find perky about her are the thin lips waxed heavy with hot pink hooker style lip stick - and of course the hair - it reminds me of the Brady Bunch episode where Marsha brushes her hair 100 times to make it straight.) None the less, I, as usual digress, and have nothing really important to say, other than to try and get the spinal fluid moving from my tail bone (there is a medical name for it) back to my brain - which has been swimming in a pool of alimony agreements, vacation plans, mindless banter and the occassional twelve pack of coors light whilst being serenaded by the Avett Brothers over my ipod. My motivation has been so bad that the gym in the hotel seems like climbing Everest- and I find that I need to rest on the second bed in the hotel room as I move towards the microwave to eat another ham and cheese Hot Pocket. (Note to all of the health conscious people - I am not a scientist, but after eating one of those, I wake up feeling like I drank 40 gallons of water - swollen like a melon - that can't be good for you).

There are a couple of fair skinned red heads sitting across from me, they obviously went somewhere with sun - they resemble burn victims, and although I find it mildly erotic as they apply aloe to each of their shoulders, I wonder why they did not go over to the Costco and pick up the 40 gallon jug of 300 SPF sun lotion - to each his own, I am just happy that they continue to assist each other with aloe application.

It is funny to see the people in and out of this place - they all give the casual glance, sometimes you get a smile, sometimes you get a short conversation about coming and going, sometimes a business card for someone you will never use (the last one that was given to me was by an acoustic engineer who flies on planes for a living testing vibration - man - I hate doing this four times a week - I can only imagine how fucking crazy that guy must be).You get the stressed out moms, and the tired dads, and the stressed out dads, and the tired moms - you occassionally get those enlightened special children that were reared to stare at you and ask questions like "Mommy, this man has hair on his face. Mommy why does this man have hair on his face. Mommy, his face should be more normal with no hair on his face. Mommy that man is eating and has food in the hair on his face. I am not allowed to put food in my hair." and so on, and then you get those little angels that are obedient, and well behaved and their tired droopy eyes just say to you - "I want to go home and sleep in my own bed and have my own blanket". You get those teenagers who think it is cool to wear their hats sideways and show off their unique boxer shorts or the girls who have "JUICY" emblazoned across their ass in skin tight cotton sweat pants, then you get the guys like me - we do this too much to really give a shit, we smile, we nod, we mostly walk like we have somewhere to go, and we all seem to hang out in the same quiet spots where you can watch CNN Airport, or enjoy a beer without all of the above hanging around. We know the Hartsfield Terminals as well as the designers, and know that we can walk from T to A and get our fill of culture of African Sculpture, or head over to the E Terminal and get a good prescription of Southern History, and if needed, we can buy flip flops, shoes, a shirt, and book in about thirty minutes in one terminal. We also know where to plug in our phones, sleep, and the cleanest bathrooms.

It is sort of an unspoken membership, you know the other members, the folks who actually dress to fly are not members, on a Sunday afternoon, there are no slacks, there are flip flops and Tevas and sport shirts and ball caps for the club members - but we all have our man-purses, and a phone. If you wear a blue tooth, we look upon you suspectingly as nearly a member, but if you do this as much as the rest of club, you know that blue tooth is way to close for comfort. We all have Bose noise headsets, and swear by them religiously, we no longer stare up at the upgrade screen, we have surrendered to the fact that it happens and it does not happen - and are happy when the plane makes it to where we are going, and that the rental car lot is not filled with mini-vans or PT Cruisers. That's us...

Well, time to head to the gate - I was just starting to enjoy the fish bowl - at times, it goes so quiet in here, like the chapel at a hospital, but the plane leaves, and I have to go buy some book, by some author, about some topic, and pretend that Ann Coulter really has something important to say...

G

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