Once again, it’s been a long, long time since I’ve updated this blog. Blogging seems to be the new millennium’s version of the Tamagotchi – at first they were kinda cool, then everyone had one, but now they are all dead.

Well, I’m not dead, and though it may seem it, the Rant is not dead either. For proof I thought I’d post a little something – old school style.

That’s right. Not some syrupy motorcycling story, not some stupid list or other fluff filler, but a real Frenchy’s fucking RANT!

Soooooo….

I’ve wasted approximately far too many hours suffering on airplanes: delays, lost luggage, stupid security, retarded passengers… I’ve seen and suffered through it all. Some people think that so much suffering must make one numb, but I’m here to tell you that it doesn’t make me numb, it makes me pissed.

Today’s excursion into the bowels of travel hell seemed on the surface to not be all that bad. A direct flight from the Kingdom of Rhode Island to our great nation’s capital, Washington DC. One flight, less than two hours, what could possibly go wrong?

Well, for starters – against my better judgement – the airline misguidedly allows other people on the plane.

Modern air travel has become a marvel of miniaturization. Back in the good old days, the airlines used $100 bills to fuel their gigantic, mostly empty planes. There were many times I would have an entire row – hell, sometimes I’d even have an entire plane to myself. Those good old days are sadly a relic of a past, better time. The new reality is smaller, cheaper planes that defy known physical laws, cramming a multitude of complete strangers together more tightly than… well… cramming everyone together almost exactly like sardines in a crushed tin box.

I throw my small computer bag into the mini-overhead compartment, then get settled into a little chair that is almost, but not quite, a real chair. Chair-lite, I call it. How quaint.

Then, I see her. Flailing down the mini-aisle, blasting other passengers out of the way, with her very maxi-bag in tow. Having been through this drill already, I know that Ms. Flail and her Stuffed Satchel of Shit is on her way to the mini-seat next to mine. On cue, she stops next to me and proves that some humans have yet to evolve from Self-Centered Asshole.

Looking at my tiny computer bag, then her gigantic rolling bag full of bloomers, she rolls her eyes. With all the authority that two beers give a lightweight, she makes the following noises in my general direction, “Isthisbagyours? Oooohhhh! Doyoumindmovingit? Mybagwon’tfit.”

How she accomplishes this without ever once looking at me is amazing. But it doesn’t matter. Her words bounce off my head unheeded. I stun her with a one word reply.

“No.”

Lady, I don’t give a shit if you’re the Grand Prize in the Airline Seat Lottery – which, for those keeping score, and for the rest that are too lazy to click the link, would be a 21 year old redhead on her way to Nymphomaniacs Anonymous. I am simply not moving MY bag for YOUR bag, you douchebag.

That is not the concept of SHARED SPACE. Did you fail kindergarten?

Angry now, she huffs, puffs, grunts, farts, whines, then storms to the back of the mini-plane (which, because of modern economics is uncomfortably close to the front, the middle, and my seat) and, I assume, finds a place for her bag. I further assume she came back and sat next to me but at this point I’m numb and I’ve long since stopped caring.

They close the cabin door, and thanks to increased cabin pressure, I am, as usual, rendered unconscious. This is the only saving grace of flying in a jet-lite. It’s smaller, so it takes less time to fill the cabin with pressure. Net result? I am knocked out quicker. Muy Bien!

Sometimes I’m lucky, and remain blissfully unaware the entire trip. The perfect flight for me? Waking up thinking we are still at the original gate, when in fact we’ve already landed and it’s time to get the fuckity-fuck out of the plane!

No such luck this time. Something gnaws at the edge of my unconsciousness. Like a gnat buzzing in my ear, or echos of a fellow passenger whining about overhead space, something draws me back to the land of the living dead.

“Swiper, no swiping! Swiper, no swiping! Swiiii-perrr! Nooooo! Swwwwippiinnnggg!”

What.

The.

Fuck.

Some android of a mom has decided the best way to not subject the flying herd to her snot-nosed brat crying all the way to Washington is to subject us all to something far worse – Dora the Explorer sans headphones, cranked at full volume.

Thanks to Al-Qaeda, passengers are no longer allowed to carry handguns, and thanks to airline cost cutting, there are no over-wing exits to conveniently dispose of Dora and Crew (seriously, there are no over-wing exits on this flying death trap. Think about that for a second…) As I see it, there’s no simple solution to this annoying problem. I find myself wishing Dora along with Android Mom would Exploras Las Siete Capas del Infierno.

And then, when things seem like they can’t possibly get any more absurd, they do. Ms. Flail, my forgotten-about seat mate turns, gives me that knowing look and says, “Can you believe the nerve of some people?”

No.

But at least I can rant about ’em!