Fudgesicles Across The Atlantic

Another boring news day. Just another dude’s body parts falling into a someone’s backyard after falling from the wheel well of a South African Airways jet. (Yawn).

Sure, this whole “stowaway-in-the-wheel-well-of-a-transatlantic-plane” thing was pretty interesting the first time I heard it, but come on – this is getting as commonplace as Dr. Phil at a dickhead convention.

Just what is it that inspires some soft-boiled egghead to “stowaway” in the wheelwell of a jet anyhow? Are you telling me someone has actually ever made it? Ya know, if I’m a budding refugee and I’m looking at a plane, I’m not likely thinking, “hmm, the wheelwell – perfect! My escape!”.

Then again, I’m an individual who just doesn’t enjoy avoiding a ball of rubber spinning at 500 miles an hour only to find myself being hauled across the Atlantic inside a cramped container hugging a chunk of metal at extreme sub-zero temperatures. Ya know, I’m just kind of a weird cat that way.

Ofcourse, I’m speaking from the perspective of a spoiled middle-class North American male whose worst lifetime experience of an oppressive government is tax on one donut, none on a dozen, so you know, you can take that into account.

But stowing away on essentially the exterior of a plane? Wow. I’m pissed when I get a middle seat.

Most of these ‘stowaways’ don’t end up in a pile of chunks in someone’s backyard though. Most seem to make it, only they end up on the other side as their very own ice cube. Sure ya made it Mogambo, but you’re a Fudgesicle. Ain’t got much use for a Human Fudgesicle in America.

I say quit looking for an easy ride. Quit trying to take the quick and lazy route riding in a jet wheelwell. I’d like my refugees to show a little work-ethic before I welcome them into the country. Is that too much to ask?

If you wanna find sanctuary in my country, I say do it the old-fashioned way. Floating aimlessly on a piece of lumber for 30 days starving and dehydrating under a debilitating sun, surrounded by hungry sharks while the saltwater tortures you’re open weather-beaten sores until you’ve lost your mind completely.

Now that’s what I call a good work ethic.