I wrote all of this last Friday while in the airport. Enjoy
Sitting here at PHL with nearly 2 hours to kill until I’m told that I didn’t get a seat on the 1:45 flight, I have nothing to do. So, why not open up Word and make catty observations about the assholes sitting around me? Sounds like fun.
I left RedVendor in plenty of time for the 11:15 and had a head filled with hope after seeing 7 empty seats on the flight. Somehow between 6:45 this morning and 10:00, the seats got taken. It turns out that WeSuckAir (Otherwise known as US Air) screwed a bunch of people from Vermont last night. They were supposed to have flown to Raleigh through PHL. Of course, they never left Vermont last night and were put on the 11:15. So, the 7 seats disappeared and I didn’t get on the flight.
The 1:45 is oversold by 3 people. I’m not getting on that flight. Not a chance of that unless I find 4 people and convince them not to fly at 1:45 but to wait until 3:50. Of course, the 3:50 is not leaving before 5:10 or so. It’s going to be a long day.
So, the flight leaves and I’m told by the quite-rude gate agent to go to the services desk. I trudge there and meet a wholly disinterested agent. I explain what happened and let her know I’d like to be on the list for the 1:45.
Have you paid the $25 fee?
Nope, I know it’s there, but no one upstairs asked me to pay it. Was it automatically applied against the card or something?
Did you pay the fee?
(Realizing the futility of the situation)No
But you need to pay the fee.
Can I have your ticket?
I don’t have a ticket. I have this “boarding pass” and my confirmation sheet
You were given a ticket
No I was not. This is what I have (pushing it across the desk)
Where’s your ticket?
I told you, I don’t have one. This is what they gave me upstairs when I checked in.
The gate agent has it.
No, I gave the gate agent nothing. The people upstairs gave me nothing. The gate sent me to you for help
I have to call the gate. (Dials way more numbers than should be required to call Gate 22) Hello? This is LazyFuck at special services. I have Michael Stone here and he says he never gave you a ticket and now he’s trying to change his flight.
(Now I know not all of you know my name in real life, it’s not like my passport says NoGoodDaddy on it. Here’s a hint. It’s not Michael Stone)
Um…my name is not Michael Stone. It’s NoGoodDaddy. Could that be the problem?
(Hand over phone receiver) What yo name?
NoGoodDaddy. Not Michael Stone.
(Into phone) You gonna have to hold on.
What yo name?
NoGoodDaddy. Now can I get on the list for the 1:45?
Great. For kicks, I got to take a bus from Terminal C to F. A bus that rides along the tarmac for God’s sake. A bus with this guy on it:
HELLO? HELLO? YEA I’M IN PHILADELPHIA. HELLO? CAN YOU HEAR ME? YEA, I’M ON SOME BUS. I DON’T KNOW WHERE I AM RIGHT NOW BUT IT’S A BUS. NO. PHILADELPHIA. HELLO? OK THEN. BYE. HELLO? HELLO? YEA. PHILADELPHIA. ON A BUS. YEA. A BUS. OH NO, THOSE PLANES HAVE PROPELLERS. I’M NOT GETTING ON ONE OF THOSE THINGS. NO. A BUS. HELLO? I DON’T KNOW WHERE I AM RIGHT NOW. OK BUS STOP! GOTTA GO
Shit. I think I want to die.
Fortunately, I have 2 books, a Newsweek and a Sudoku book to play with. I could just go get hammered. That could be fun.
I wandered to my gate (I have no idea why. A flight to Detroit was boarding. Who lives in Detroit anyway?)
2 women were screaming at the gate agent. They apparently had standby seats and were not getting on the flight. That’s not totally abnormal except for the fact that they were screaming in some African Bushman language. (Not to sound racist or any more intolerant than normal…but) I was treated to a lot of that Oonagoogoo clicking of the tongue shit. In fact, it was amusing.
So, here I am back by the food court.
Oh well…just got some sniffs on my wireless card but HealthCareRelatedCompany and its damn restrictions won’t let me connect to it. Damn them all to hell.
I think I’ll rest now and put the computer to sleep because I don’t want to waste my battery on total nonsense…
I’m back. Miss me?
Why am I back? Yes, folks, another problem down below. I have to pee again. I got to my original gate at 10:30 and it’s now 12:40. I’ve peed 3 times so far and I need to pee again. Maybe I should lay off the coffee first thing in the morning. Or maybe I should start wearing diapers. But, we are trying to get the kid to stop the whole wetting herself thing, so maybe I should try not to regress.
Jesus, the shit that the people around me are eating smells like whale taint. That’s right, I just invented a smell. Whale Taint-smell. It may be Chinese food. It may be pizza. NO matter what it is, people are shoveling it into their gaping maws at an alarming rate. It’s always good to see that portion control is a wholly foreign concept to American food purveyors…or food consumers for that matter. .
This is going to be a long-ass day, isn’t it?
“Mr. Pot. You have a phone call from Mr. Kettle. A Mr. Black Kettle. Please pick up any red courtesy phone to take your call”
Hi again. It’s 2:20. I’ve been at PHL for 4 hours now.
Why the bad joke just up there? Oh, yea…portion control. Meet me and my 937 ounce fruit smoothie. Yes, it’s huge, but it’s go-ood. And it’s got both mangoes and passion fruit in it. Which ensures me what? A passionate bout of diarrhea? I feel entitled to an overly large smoothie at this point; seeing as I’m still here and I should “eat” something before I get home and drown myself in a pitcher of margaritas over at LTM.
After we last spoke, I headed to the gate for the 1:45. Knowing it was over sold, I had low hopes. I checked in to make sure I was on the list and even offered to look pathetic in an attempt to get someone to give up their seat(s). No luck. So, they board. There’s a clutch of us waiting there, hoping some poor souls suffered horribly in an accident out on the highway; hence causing them to not show up for the flight. The agent boards them all and closes the flight. It’s time to ding in all the passes and get the count. We wait…
“Folks, we have a couple of people who didn’t show up. Hold on a sec”
HOPE SPRINGS ETERNAL IN PHL!
She opens the door to the jet way and heads down to the plane. She comes back and makes one last announcement…really loud-like
ANY PASSENGERS WITH CONFIRMED SEATS TO RALEIGH NEED TO BOARD NOW
I REPEAT… ANY PASSENGERS WITH CONFIRMED SEATS TO RALEIGH NEED TO BOARD NOW
We all sit there, anxious as cheerleaders waiting to be picked to get sodomized by James VanderBeek-lookalike, Chad, the star of the local football team.
Finally, 3 morons behind me stand up and wander towards the counter.
Then, incredibly, 4 more come forward.
These 7 assholes had no idea, apparently, how to board a plane. The whole thing where all the other people got on the plane apparently was not indicator enough for them. They needed to be scolded into boarding.
Rule 87629465 of flying: If you can’t figure out how to get on the plane, you don’t get to ride on the plane.
Defeated, I headed back to the bus to Terminal B.
The ride was more fun this time for 2 reasons. One was the old man sitting next to me who instead on screaming at us all that the bus wasn’t taking the right route. The second thing was said route. We drove practically along the runway to go between terminals. At one point we cut off a Jazz plane. (No, that’s not a plane that’s all fabulous and does “jazz hands”; it’s the short-hop carrier owned by Air Canada). They deserved being cut off by a busload of morons. They’re Canadian after all.
So, now it’s 2:30, my smoothie is only half way done and sits next to me with a mocking tone on its face because both it and I know that my stomach lacks the capacity to consume that much smoothie-goodness without shitting all over Terminal B, the flight is already delayed, and I’m tired. Oh, and my back is sore. And my underpants are all bunched against my nutsack.
Oh..another story. On the way over here to Terminal B, after riding the bus, you have to either walk along a concourse or take one of those moving sidewalks. Even though I’m in no rush, I opt for the latter because I’m a type-a tool. I get on the sidewalk behind a bunch of stupid teenagers. I can’t pass them because they’re now sitting on the rails and yapping at each other about the artistic merits of some really horrid films. (Well, not horrid, but how does anyone find artistic merit in Road Trip?). Anyhoo, one of them comments that the ride is awful long (it is). The kid then mentions that you’re not really supposed to just ride the thing. You’re supposed to walk along it. At that moment, the only kid in the group who had parents who loved her and taught her how to behave in public looks my way.
“Did you want to get past?”
I gave her my best “Yes, I know at this moment that I am an adult and you and your friends think I am a tool because I’m standing here in a pair of Khakis and sneakers for God’s sake and I’m trying really hard not to be a dick about this” face and just nod ever so slowly.
Turning the shade of red that only embarrassed teenaged girls can turn, she turned to her friends and shooed them off the rails…just as the moving sidewalk ended.
As a wise sage said at Shea 2 weeks ago “Sit down, asshole, you’re not here alone!”
It’s not your world folks, we all have to share it.