Based on a recent traveling experience, let me tell you how much I hate people.
On my way back from Seattle, there was a woman sitting next to me on the plane, who felt the need to wrap pretzels in not one, but about nine plastic bags. This meant that every time she reached in for a pretzel to crunch directly into my earhole, she sounded like a roadside prisoner collecting trash from the streets of India.
Seriously, based on her struggle, you would’ve thought she had a pair of Houdini’s handcuffs on, as she fought her way through the labyrinth of bags that she created for herself.
Automatic 12 angry stares.
About five rows up were two little douche bags, who appeared to be about 18 or 19. They were standing in line behind me in security as I was leaving, when I noticed their flat, monotone Orange County surfer-bro accents. Their height was possibly around 5’3, if they were stacked on top of one another.
Even worse, they were in matching outfits, which consisted of baggy-crotched sweatpants-shorts and oversized long sleeve t-shirts.
“Broh, Rebeccuh is soh hott, dood. She fallowed me on Instahgram and she is lik so banginh. She’s Rachuel’s roommate. I’m defunitely fixinh to smash,” the littler one bragged with a tone that suggested he was not fixin’ to smash.
It’s honestly a modern day miracle that I didn’t let out a Big Foot summoning scream then and there, but somehow I was able to stand through about 40 minutes of this, considering the line was very long.
Once we boarded, they handed the stewardess their fake IDs, and asked for white wine.
It was approximately 6:15 a.m.
I hated them so much.
They reminded me of Tim and Eric’s Beaver Boys, who are fictional white wine and shrimp cocktail-loving bro besties.
You think I would’ve been cut some slack, due to my trip up there, but the traveling gods are never in my favor.
When I was still in Orange County, there was a problem with overbooking the plane. Naturally, all the passengers were asked to line up and say whether or not they’d like to offer up their tickets. Standing behind me, was a grown up Beaver Boy with a kid.
Big Daddy Beaver was showing his kid around the airport like it was a shiny new medallion.
“Yeah, she’s our fourth one!” he said to some guy who didn’t even ask.
“It’s her first plane ride,” he commented to me, inching closer and closer into my back, so I would be forced to acknowledge his child.
“Do not make direct eye contact,” I told myself.
“Well, I’m curious to see how she’s going to do on her first big plane ride,” he continued, aggressively pushing his infant into my body.
“I’m absolutely not,” I commented in my head, considering that I hate children.
“She’s three-months-old. Yep,” he kept discussing, literally with himself, begging someone to pay attention to this cherry red gurgling face.
Some babies are cute. Some ugly as sin.
This was the latter.
I wanted to scream, “Stop pushing your damn tomato-colored baby into my back!” but they probably wouldn’t have let me on the plane.
He proceeded to make the loudest kissing noises onto Gordon Ramsey, Jr., which could be heard for miles.
“SMMMMMMUUUUUCHHHHHHHH” he suctioned onto her face, like an octopus catching a crab with its tentacles.
Oh my god. Please get me out of here.
I finally made my way through this obstacle course, and noticed the man going back to his wife, who disturbingly looked like she was about 70-years-old. She had long waist-length solid gray hair and a vibe that suggested her husband was one of those men that believed women’s bodies were made to be similar to a work mule, solely on the terms that they were supposed to pump out as many children as possible during the span of 20 years.
That is also a run-on sentence, but necessary.
This confirmed the fact that I feel very strongly about not having tiny psychos of my own any time within the next millennium.
Once I did get on the plane, I sat beside a woman who didn’t say one word to me, which is my ideal fellow passenger. Finally, I could relax a little.
The sun was setting and I looked out of the window to see the gorgeous sunset from the sky. That was when I noticed that the woman sitting next to me was taking a few pictures.
No big deal, right?
But she didn’t stop there. She took, hand on the Bible, maybe 7,000 pictures of the sunset. On top of that, she had a really shitty phone, so each picture came out looking like a giant indecipherable blob. I thought she realized the problem, but after about two full minutes of not taking a photo, she was back at it again, this time with flash.
The flash only made the photograph worse, due to a common understanding of science.
Any third-grader could tell you that taking a picture through a reflective surface with the flash on is pretty f*cking stupid.
For about 2 hours, she experimented with variations of flash, no flash, some flash, window mirroring, direct surface contact, and nearly blinding me.
I endured this for 120 minutes, until the plane finally landed in Seattle. My left eye was about as handy as someone’s who had stared directly into a solar eclipse for three years.
Isn’t traveling so much fun?