MUSINGS FROM THE AIRPORT

Every magazine shop at the airport is loaded with porno mags.
Who are these walking hard-ons that can’t go 3 hours on a plane without some smut? And where are they browsing these magazines anyhow? Hey pal, that lavatory’s small enough without me having to dodge your DNA on the angled ceiling. Stop that. And grab yourself up a Chatelaine, asshole.

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As soon as I get through security, there’s always someone from American Express trying to pitch me another credit card.

“Do you have any metal objects?”

“No.”

“How about a line of credit?”

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The moving sidewalk never ceases to amaze me. Moreso are these people who, seemingly, lose all motor skills when they get on them. They’re walking. They get on the moving sidewalk. They stop. Hey Treebeard, even George Jetson kept moving on the moving sidewalk. I don’t see any chairs. SO keep moving!

And if you have trouble maneuvering the delicate combination of walking and the motion of a moving sidewalk below your feet, what the fuck are you doing getting on an airplane?

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$6.99 for a tuna fish sandwich. For that price, there better be a little bit of dolphin in there somewhere.

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It’s the waiting that’ll kill ya at the airport. It’s like they go out of their way to make it purposefully boring. Drab walls, Fluorescent lights. No music.

I got a great idea. Let’s move the homeless into airport terminals. Well, it provides them with warm, dry shelter and if I gotta sit around for 2 hours, I wouldn’t mind watching a dirty, crazy dude in a blanket smack a child’s tambourine and incoherently hum “Love Me Do”. Hell, I’d probably feel so guilty for it, I’d buy him a 7 dollar tuna fish sandwich.