Dennis Miller on Travel

----- Begin NetScrap(TM) -----

Dennis Miller on Travel


Now, I don't want to get off an a rant here, but flying in this
country has turned into an amazingly arduous process, especially
boarding the plane, which has now become this tedious, Bataan death
march with American Tourister overnight bags.  I get stuck behind this
one guy who takes forever to get situated.  He's clogging the aisle
like a piece of human cholesterol jammed in the passengerial artery.
You just want to get that soft drink cart and flush his ass out the
back door.  He's folding that sport jacket like he's in the color
guard at Arlington National Cemetery.
     
     Or else I get stuck behind a wizard who wants to beat the system
by gaffer-taping a twine handle onto a refrigerator-freezer box and
calling it "carry on," wedging it into the overhead with hydraulic
jacks.  It's like trying to get Pavarotti into a wet suit, for
Christ's sake.
     
     And exactly when did stewardesses in this country get so f_cking
cranky?  I know it's a tough job -- there's got to be a thousand
different ways to tie that neckerchief, but why piss on me, huh?  You
know, the worst thing about it is they don't even come clean with you
and tell you how much they hate you.  They treat you with that highly
contrived air of mock civility, that tight, pursed-lip grin where they
nod agreement with everything you say.  You know right behind that
face plate they barely tolerate your very existence.  I'd rather they
just come out in the open and say, "Hey, listen, _sshole: when I was
eighteen years old, I made a horrible vocational error, all right?  I
turned in my entire adult life for cheap airfare to Barbados.  Now
I've got hair with the tensile strength of Elsa Lanchester in 'Bride
of Frankenstein.'  I haven't met Mr. Right.  I'm a waitress in a bad
restaurant at thirty thousand feet.  Jam your Diet Slice up your _ss,
all right?"  At least show me something.  Come down the aisle like the
old broad in 'From Russia with Love' with the knife point coming out
of her shoe.  "Peanuts, Mr. Bond?"
     
     What about when you leave the plane and they've got them propped
by the front door in that complete android catatonic stupor, where
they look like the Yul Bryner robot from 'Westworld' when he blew a
headpipe and iced Marcus Welby's assistant?  "Bye.  Bye.  Bye.  Bye."
It's like your stockbroker on Thorazine or something.
     
     And am I the only one who likes to get on a plane and unwind with
a good book?  Sit there in a little peace and quiet.  I'm constantly
in conversation with complete strangers -- always being approached by
these overly ebullient Jonathan Livingston Human types.  This
eighteen-year-old kid who's on his way back from Aruba and wants to
show me this skull bong he purchased there that's carved out of
volcanic rock.  You know he's always got a dream he wants me to
interpret for him.  And you're afraid to not talk to him.  You never
know who the f_cking terrorist is on the plane.  I'd hate to alienate
anybody who's looking for a prom date to Valhalla.
     
     There's a lot of terrorism in the air, but you know when you walk
through the air terminal and see the crack security people manning the
perimeter, I think we all sleep the sleep of angels.  Came into
Phoenix the other day, the woman working the X-ray machine had the
attention span of Boo Radley.  She's sitting there like Captain Pike
from "Star Trek."  She had a channel flicker.  She's watching baggage
from other airports, for Christ's sake.
     
    You think pilots make fun of those guys who bring them the last
ten feet into the terminal with those cone flashlights?  "Well, thank
YOU, Vasco da Gama.  I kited in from Malaysia, you're going to take me
the last furlong, Captain Eveready.  I hope you don't blow a D-cell.
I'd hate to be stuck out here in the Bermuda Tarmac for the rest of my
life."
     
     What about those masks that drop down in the event of
decompression?  That's a pretty flimsy-looking apparatus, isn't it?
Doesn't this look remarkably like a Parkay margarine cup on the end of
an enema bag or something?  They always have these bizarre
instructions to start the flow of oxygen.  "Tug down lightly on the
cord."  Yeah, you know when I'm shoulder-rolling at seven hundred
miles per hour, "lightly" just isn't in my f_cking vocabulary, all
right?  You know people are going to be Conaning those things right
off the bulkhead.  Something intrinsically cruel having the last forty
seconds of your life turn into a "Lucy" skit.
     
     I think instead of oxygen, they ought to pump in nitrous oxide.
This way, if the plane does wreck, that first rescue team comes onto
the scene: you're up in a tree, still strapped in your seat, just
laughing your _ss off.  Guy says, "Bobby, get over here.  Look how hip
this guy is.  I mean, he's naked, he's blue, he's howling!  This cat
is centered, huh?!"
     
     You know what I hate is when you're sitting in coach class and
they pull that curtain on first class.  Oh, I see, they paid and extra
forty dollars, and I'm a f_cking leper.  I always get the feeling that
if the plane's about to wreck, the front compartment breaks off into a
little "Goldfinger" miniplane.  They're on their way to Rio, and I'm a
charcoal briquette on the ground.
     
     You know who I feel sorry for in the whole air travel scenario?
It's the poor b_stard who has to drive the jetway.  You know that
little accordion tentacle that weaves its way out to meet the plane?
Everybody else is Waldo Pepperin' around in their Bobby Lansing
leather bomber jackets, the right stuff coursing through their veins
as they push the outside of the envelope.  Your job is to drive the
building.
     
     A lot of qualifications to sit next to that exit door, huh?  When
did that happen?  I've been a physical klutz for years.  I'm like
Clouseau.  Nobody's ever said a word.  All of a sudden they want me to
be a f_cking Navy SEAL.  I guess they want to be sure the person
sitting there doesn't panic in the event that the plane goes down in
water. Item number 8 on the qualification list was "You must not be
Ted Kennedy."


----- End NetScrap(TM) -----