Vodka. Motherfucking. Tonic.
I've never hated flying, just hated the feeling of negative g-forces. It's a bit unnatural. This, compiled with my love of feeling as little as possible, made the flight to Washington Dulles that much more enjoyable. It wouldn't have turned out this way if it weren't for the young couple and their brood of three.
Children are a wonderful thing, as long as they are your children. Then they are the shitting-pissing-puking-yelling-screaming-kicking machines that the rest of us wish would be confined to small enclosed spaces underneath a seat cushion. There aren't enough Pokemon or Tigger and Company videos in the world from preventing a child from hitting the flight attendant call button like it was an appeal to higher powers for Ronald McDonald himself to join the flight. The knob that controls the airflow becomes a test of childly strength; who can turn it the most before mom gets mad.
So vodka tonics it was. I feel less than nothing as we descent over the Potomac, save for the numbing kickassness of Skyy. Once the plane landed, I trotted to baggage claim, where I learned that a large Pakistani population had taken up residence at Dulles Airport and now work as baggage handlers. Normally I would patiently wait for the bags to tumble out off the ramp, pick up my belongings and retreat before I was asked if “you want bag cart ok?” but since I was carrying a laptop, 2 bags, and 2 gigantic plastic cases filled with what must have looked to the Transportation Safety Administration as a white trash nuclear bomb, I figured what the hell. The vodka tonics agreed, so Kashmir the former boxer loaded up my belongings. Lemme tell you, it was worth the $20 tip.
The vodka tonics agreed.
I've never hated flying, just hated the feeling of negative g-forces. It's a bit unnatural. This, compiled with my love of feeling as little as possible, made the flight to Washington Dulles that much more enjoyable. It wouldn't have turned out this way if it weren't for the young couple and their brood of three.
Children are a wonderful thing, as long as they are your children. Then they are the shitting-pissing-puking-yelling-screaming-kicking machines that the rest of us wish would be confined to small enclosed spaces underneath a seat cushion. There aren't enough Pokemon or Tigger and Company videos in the world from preventing a child from hitting the flight attendant call button like it was an appeal to higher powers for Ronald McDonald himself to join the flight. The knob that controls the airflow becomes a test of childly strength; who can turn it the most before mom gets mad.
So vodka tonics it was. I feel less than nothing as we descent over the Potomac, save for the numbing kickassness of Skyy. Once the plane landed, I trotted to baggage claim, where I learned that a large Pakistani population had taken up residence at Dulles Airport and now work as baggage handlers. Normally I would patiently wait for the bags to tumble out off the ramp, pick up my belongings and retreat before I was asked if “you want bag cart ok?” but since I was carrying a laptop, 2 bags, and 2 gigantic plastic cases filled with what must have looked to the Transportation Safety Administration as a white trash nuclear bomb, I figured what the hell. The vodka tonics agreed, so Kashmir the former boxer loaded up my belongings. Lemme tell you, it was worth the $20 tip.
The vodka tonics agreed.