My flight officially began when an old man sitting next to me opened the BFG’s flask of orange and it exploded all over me. I took it well though. Luckily, the man had aimed the volcanic orange directly onto my lap allowing my pants to soak most of it up. To my surprise, a nice girl sitting to my left offered me one of her napkins to clean myself up. I immediately hated this girl more than the orange assassin.
The napkin she gave me is only used by little lego women to take off their slutty yellow make up after a night out at the local pirate ship set. The napkin prevented me from being able to get up, go to the bathroom and dry my clothes with as much toilet paper as I wanted. Instead, I had to sit in my seat and creepily pat myself down with the donated lego wipe.
Other than that, not a lot happened on that seven hour flight. But there was a tense few hours half way across the Atlantic Ocean when my hangover opened a travelling circus in my lower intestine. Hangovers have, for the people who don’t leave their houses, a special ability that completely convinces a person that something terrible has happened or is about to happen.
Since I was on a plane hurtling at 600 mph, 30,000 feet in the air, my hangover had little work in convincing me that the plane was going to crash on a deserted island, killing everyone on board. I would obviously survive the horrible accident but I would be forced to live out the remainder of my days eating trees and hunting coconuts. It was a tough three and a half hours.
We landed safely in Boston at 6:35p.m. Unfortunately, the Irish lad so glad he was alive forgot about one thing – Border Control. Border Control is like going to a double palm sunday mass on the night of your birthday with five 109 year old nuns, who wait for you to say the responses, all the while knowing you have to go to the library afterwards to compete in a silent, no fun competition.
After an hour or so, I was ushered to the correct desk. I naturally had none of the right things filled out and showed the intimidating security guard an expired visa.You should never try to be funny at this point in your trip to America. Responding to serious questions such as “Have you ever been associated with a terrorist organisation?” with “I don’t know, have I?” is a bad idea. Winking and laughing after you say it doesn’t fix things. Apologising, begging and crying does help things though. After I dried my salty man tears I slumped off to collect my bags.
The baggage area was less exciting than my sexually fueled, hungover mind had imagined on the plane. It was a small, lifeless place. Not a slutty, half dressed stewardess in sight. I found a slot next to a few people I recognised/had made too much eye contact with on the plane and waited for my bag to appear. Then I finally realised it. It all finally fell into place for me. I had packed a bag earlier that day that I had never seen before while the alcohol was taking its children for a tour around every part of my body.
In other words… I didn’t know… what my bag looked like…