So, I Promise Nobody on This Side of the Airplane is going to Have Sex Tonight.

The Traveler: 

Strangely I don’t really know where I am… I’m so spent from a long Euro tour, something like London, Amsterdam, Brussels, Luxembourg, Helsinki, Paris… and then I forget.  I do know that this boarding pass in my hand says: DFW and that’s a good thing. I’m boarding business class on an AA 777 and that too is a good thing. And I have 10 hours of peace, quiet, and not being on stage, and nobody asking me question… and that is an Amazing thing.

I look forward to long airplane rides for the peace they bring me.

Anyway, talking on the phone with the Orangutan as I board the airplane someone says loud enough for her to hear: “I like your jeans”. I nod and say thanks… I don’t look around. I’m frankly sorta flummoxed by this, even being ‘The Ho Whisperer’, I’m wretchedly inept at picking up when girls are hitting on me.

The Orangutan thinks this is amazingly funny. She gets all breathless, “Oh… I like your Jeans…” and rolls laughing.

“Dude…” I try to explain, but I’m way too tired.

“Those jeans do make your package look amazing”. She said.

“Thanks.” I said, still… I’m totally out of words. I don’t know what you’re supposed to do in this situation. There wasn’t a primer for it in kindergarten.

“So, I know you gotta run… but can you do me a favor?” She asks.

“Sure.” I say.

“If it’s at all possible, can you avoid having sex with anyone on the flight home?”  She asks snarky.

I consider her request for a long moment. “Sure, I guess so, if it means that much to you…”

We say our good byes, hang up.

I get to my seat.

In the seat next to me, is this amazingly hot, 20 something red hair’d girl, who apparently likes my jeans a whole lot. 

I smile. She smiles. She must have designed the jeans or something because, seriously, I’m old enough to be the younger guy her mom is dating.

I sit.

She smiles, again.

Getting myself situated, she looks me dead in the eye and says deadpan: “Do you want to be on top or bottom?”

I am, at this point, totally out of my element.

Now lets be clear. I’m reasonably good looking. I’m reasonably fit for a man my age. I’m in a job that puts me on stage, I am what someone might call charismatic. And those skills have come in useful a few times with the opposite sex… but I am simply not so good looking, fit, or rich enough to get this aggressively hit-on without having said a word yet.

Now, I’m sure some of you are thinking I need to be reaching for the brass ring with both hands here, but seriously guys, I’m going to be sitting next to this girl for the next 10 hours. This situation could easily turn into the worst first date ever, with no possibility of escape.

While I’m busying myself trying to think of something suitably charming to say, she points at the cubbies between out seat. The cubbies hold the vanity kits American is kind enough to supply to business class passengers, they are situated one on top of the other. 

Oh. I smile and nod. I get it. The clever-cute-tease. I got your number baby. I figured out how to deal with that well before you were born, I think.

“Doesn’t really matter to me.” I say flatly. Hoping to shut this down. Now, I could try and see how far I could push this thing, just for it’s entertainment value, see exactly what she’d be willing to do in an 777 forward lav, and pull the plug at the last minute. But guys, I’ve got a perfectly nice Orangutan waiting for me at home who wouldn’t appreciate even a ‘harmless’ tease game, and more than that, I am fucking tired.

“I prefer to be on top”. She says.

Of course you do, I think. I shrug. “Go for it,” I say.

She looks at me like 10 minutes after the lights go down she intends to do just that.

I pull out my hot-girl-canceling-headphones, plug in my iPod, put on my sunglasses, and surrender to the Acid Jazz.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see her sorta shrug, like: fuck you then. And start to play Teris on the inflight entertainment console.

That being exactly the response I was looking for. I can almost feel Mother Earth’s “Jesse” start to pull me away into a preflight nap.

“Hey Cole!” I am jostled. A couple of late arrivals are trying to man handle their plethora of trinkets and knickknacks into the overhead.  It is a couple, dad in his fifties, and step mom about my age. Hot red-haired girl is theirs.

Dad is talking three notches too loud, right through me to his daughter. I pull off my shades.

Dad locks eyes with me. He absolutely does not like what he sees. 

I try to smile and put my shades back on.

“Hey Cole,” He shouts as if in an especially loud nightclub. “Do you wanna switch seats with me?”

Please, Cole, for the sake of my tired old bones. I implore quietly. 

“Nope. I’m good.” She says, smiling at dad, and then at me.

My tired head lolls to the side, to see dad’s reaction. That was not the answer he wanted. He looks at me for a long moment.

He considers asking me if I’ll switch with him, but before the words leave his lips, he looks over at reasonably hot step mom, and he realizes that no matter what, this dude in these amazing jeans will be sitting next to at least one of his females.

He hates that fact, and his hatred for me is palpable. 

For a moment, I can tell he’s thinking about asking me to switch with reasonably hot step mom, and move from my isle seat to the only damn middle seat in business class.

Sunglasses off. I look at him coldly, like: Are you motherfucking crazy?

He is caught between a rock and a hard place, and succumbs to his fate.

But he does not go quietly.

Sunglasses back on. Preflight Champaign in each hand, Mother Earth on the iPod, I lean back.

“Hey Cole! Did you see the pictures your mom took.” He shouts past me

“She’s not my mom.” Cole says to me only.

A few moments later, as my body is on the verge of surrender.

“Hey Cole! Did you see the crystal statue your mom got at that shop.”

She doesn’t respond or if she does, I don’t catch it.

Two minutes later, “Hey Cole! They have salmon on the menu tonight.”

They always have salmon on the menu, tourist.

“Hey Cole! Did you see anything you wanted on the inflight duty free?”

This is clearly a chimpanzee territorial display. And I try to suck it up, because Dad is just engaging in a biological response to an obvious predator in the company of one of his females. It's rude, yes, but also a biological imperative, so he treads the line of my finely tuned since of politeness. 

But. It. Keeps. Going On.

The plane takes off, he just gets louder. I get it dude. She is Your female. I’m just trying to sleep here.

He. Will. Not. Stop.  

Every single sentence starts with, “Hey Cole!” If I hear that one more time, I will lose my fucking mind.

“Hey Cole! Did you—“

I sit up so rapidly, it actually interrupts him. Sunglasses off. 

I twist in my seat aggressively.

I look him dead in the eye.

“Hey Cole’s Dad!” I shout. Now everyone is looking, Great. The flight attendant’s ears perk up, on full terrorist incident alert. Maybe I said that a bit too loud.

“Listen, I understand my sitting next to your daughter makes you uncomfortable. But how about we make a deal… What if I PROMISE that no one on this side of the airplane will be having sex tonight. Not just on the airplane, but even after they get home. No Sex, I absolutely promise. I’ll make it my personal mission to enforce that. Okay? So could you please, please, dial it down so I can sleep?”

In a moment of emotional honesty he doesn’t even look apologetic. He looks at me like, ‘That sounds like a fair deal, partner.’ And turns back to his book.

And shuts the fuck up.

Cole, does her damnedest to turn herself invisible under a pile of pillows and covers.

Thank god.

The Alert flight attendant, stops by a few moments later, she presses an unordered Vodka Rocks in my hand, leans down and whispers, "Those are great jeans."

Afterward:

At about 1 hour to landing, Cole and Cole’s dad switch places. She’s sick or sexually frustrated or something. I really don’t care. He feels the need to address our “incident.”  He hems and haws, trying to figure out some way to start the conversation.

“She’s gotten motion sick.” He says.

“Listen, “ I say. “I have a daughter. I get it. But seriously. I kept my end of the deal, Nobody got laid last night, so no talking, okay?”

So, the Air Marshal Service Breaks Up an Impromptu Reunion

The Traveler: 

The Brunettutan and I are on the same flight from LHR to DFW! The thought hit me like a lightning bolt.  We’d been apart for 2 weeks, and worse yet one of those weeks was her in Israel, utterly without phone service. So my only means of contact with her  were her Facebook updates that were frequently things like:

“Hey look at me, pressed with 16 different points of body contact up against a NASCAR driver… He’s so Awesome… I think I wanna marry him...”

or

“out in the middle of the desert at an Rave… they bussed in hot guys to dance… I don’t know why I’m the only hot girl here… woot!”

And so on.

Needless to say, I was missing her stupid monkey face, and feeling ever so slightly out of sorts with my apparent position in the pack order when I noticed her last Facebook Status update:

Packing going to the airport…

But it’s Saturday, I thought… I’m traveling home on Saturday, she was supposed to be coming home until Sunday. Then I remember, that she said she arrived at 730… which is the same time I arrive, but a day “earlier”.

Her simian self was clarly confused… you lose a day going to EMEA… you gain time coming back. She had it backwards...

Now knowing that we were on the same flight… I began to scramble. Her company, which sucks because it’s populated by testosterone fueled middle aged frat boys and wireless engineers, and … -- wait that’s not why it sucks… it sucks because she has to fly back of the bus, toilette class.  Why I fly business… So I scramble, trying to get her upgraded, before I leave Lisbon.

That was a solid hour on the phone, to no avail. I can’t upgrade her with miles… but I learned there were “lots of seats” available… so just buy them at the airport. And it would probably be cheaper.

Now of course I was also seriously late getting to my gate. And mate later because Portugal apparently like Poland, also insists you go through passport control when you LEAVE instead of when you enter. WTF?

3 hours later – LHR. I connect with The Orangutan at the AA lounge… Kiss-kiss hug-hug we got 20 minutes before the flight boards… she’s terribly surprised, but we gotta hustle. I work the club desk. “Hey… look, so I’m stupid, because I didn’t know we were on the same flight… but I was hoping”.

Those words escape my lips and I look behind me at the line forming and I want to kick my own ass. This is the kind of lack of preparation and forethought that usually causes me to want to humiliate other people pretty dramatically. I hate that I’m that guy right now.

I’m told of course that there are not “lots of seats” in business. Business is in fact sold out. There aint nothing anyone can do about it.

I look at her sad brown eyes, eyes that almost regret two solid weeks of partying, and status updates that drove me seven different kinds of crazy – almost – but not enough to actually – you know – stop…  I shrug… Hey… you know babe… I tried…

She looks at me like: “You could always downgrade…”

I look at her like she just shit a unicorn.

The desk lady calls, “Oh wait, good news, Sir.”

We both turn excited.

“Because business was oversold, we’ve bumped you up to First.”

“Both of us?” I ask.

“Uh, No…” She said.

That’s all right; First class on an American 777 is one of the nicest ones out there. They have these private pods that are nearly 7 feet long by 3 feet wide. Where the seats not only turn away from each other but also lay flat into beds… What’s more, when upright the pod can actually be 2 seats! What is the foot rest half of the pod is actually bigger than a coach class seat, and has it’s own seatbelt… and the table can fold out between them -- for if you and a colleague wanna play scrabble or something.

So kiss – kiss – bye, bye, I’ll go work my magic on the purser and get her up front after take off –

I explain my tale of woe to the purser… I share with him the photos of her pressed up against a NASCAR driver, like, Hey common; yes I’m an idiot, and I should have planned better, and had I this would be a non-issue, but I haven’t seen the girl in a couple of weeks, help a brother out here, huh?

Sympathetic he said usually they don’t allow people to cross classes of service but he’d do some checking at let me know.

I’m pretty hopeful, I got good game with flight staff.  But he came back 5 minutes later shaking his head.

“Sir, ordinarily, I’d be happy to accommodate you, going back to the United States, it’s a security issue – I checked with our security staff, and the Air Marshals won’t have it.”

Fate is funny. If I hadn’t been upgraded, we probably could have connected at the boarder between business and coach… but now there was a whole class of service between us.  And while the purser was standing there, as if for effect, one of the other FA’s announce that under no circumstances, due to security measures was anyone to cross any classes of service on flights back to the USA.

The purser looked at me: “The seat next to her is solo, I could certainly convince that passenger to trade with you.”  Meaning downgrade me two classes of service.

I look back at the photo of the orangutan and the NASCAR driver. He couldn’t have been even a very good driver, what with his job being driving tourists around a test track…

“Uh.. yeah… no.” Enjoy coach, bitch.

So, I think we need to introduce predators into airports

The Traveler: 

London Heathrow. I love England. I get around good, the cab drivers are the best in the world. The people are generally pretty cool – EXCEPT – They have this bizarre habit of simply stopping where they are, forming a little social circle, and having a chat / smoke / drink / or whatever the fuck right in the middle of an otherwise active walkway.

You’ll be walking along, and all of a sudden, like in some video game, one of these pods of people will suddenly stop and become an obstacle you have to navigate around. And for all the presumed politeness of the British, there seems to be a distinct aura of don’t give a fuck, that they’ve just disrupted the flow of foot traffic.

Nowhere is this worse than in Airports. Airports are for the most part poorly designed, anyway. I mean if you put the information sign 5 feet in front of an entrance door, you have to expect that people will stop and look at it. It’s as if someone internationally designed –as a security measure— little attention grabbing do-dads to utterly fuck up anyone’s ability to move about the premises freely.

So here’s the plan. We introduce predators into airports. Maybe if navigating the airport had an element of danger to it, folks might be more mindful of staying on the move, walking with purpose, knowing where they want to go before they step off.

Of course we can sprinkle in safe zones, so that folks can hop from one to another… do their duty free shopping in safety and then back out into the breech. I’m thinking something akin to a daily commute in Sarajevo back with it was front lines in the Yugoslav civil war. Run-Dodge-Break-For-Cover.

Now, I know what the humanists are saying… but it doesn’t have to be dangerous predators… just a bunch of really pissed off cats with maybe a few Jack Russell Terriers thrown in for variety –just something to get folks to step-off with purpose.

P.S. as an added measure, how about we also get rid of the Arrivals Displays inside of the secure area… it’s been 10 years since folks have been able to get through security to meet people at the gate –so their really just something else for stupid people to stop and look at.

So, an Indian waiter learns the value of a decimal point

The Traveler: 

London. Real quick, just now me and a friend were finishing dinner. I flag the waiter over to pay my tab. In London, like much of Europe, they use these portable credit card machines, but in London, like in most places in Europe, Tipping is exceptional not standard, so there is no line on the receipt to add a tip after it’s printed. I tell the waiter, “Add six pounds tip for your self”.

“You do it.” He said. I didn’t really understand, but once he ran my card, he handed me the machine, and said, “You can approve the charge here. And add the tip if you want.”

Fine, cool.  So I hit the green button, okaying the base charge, I go to the next screen, selecting, Yes I’d like to leave a tip, and I start to enter the amount. It’s like one of those old calculators, where each digit you enter moves the decimal place to the right, (starting with 6 cents, then you add a zero to make sixty and so on).

Well I got to .60 cents, and for some reason the waiter snatched the machine out of my hand… I guess I was taking to long or something. Cause he snatched it up, looked at the screen.

“I wasn’t done… I need to finish”.

“I’ll finish” he said.

“No I mean the amount isn’t right.” And I try to take the machine back, I get it just in my hands and ready to add the final zero, and he snatches it back.

He completes the transaction, prints my receipt. He looks at it carefully, “Did you mean to leave sixty cents tip?” he asks.

“No,” I said. “I meant to leave you six pounds, but you snatched the machine out of my hand before I could finish, and you wouldn’t listen to me that the amount was wrong.”

He looks at me like suggesting I could leave cash, I look at him like there is no way in the world I was going to do that.

“Sorry dude. But now I guess you know the value of a decimal point.”

(and of not snatching shit out of my hands, I thought.)

So, there’s a joke here somewhere…

The Traveler: 


Deplaning in Warsaw there didn’t seem to be any customs or boarder control to speak of. This isn’t unusual, both the Czech Republic and Poland are EU-ish countries, and frequently there isn’t much boarder control between them. (Except when you go to England. They hate you in the UK nearly as much as we hate people coming into the US –the lines are so damned long that by the time you get in… you’re wondering why you ever wanted to in the first place). Point being we weren’t worried about the general lack of controls in place.

What we were worried about was getting the hell out of there before Borat Extra found us.

“We need to roll, brother.” Said KP.

And so we set off, only to shortly thereafter discover that the Warsaw airport is like the Hotel California… (for you Justin Bieber fans, that means: “You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave”.)

“This is an incredibly innovative method of boarder control…” I commented.

“And economic stimulus.” KP is a financial analyst, dry as a bone, and I find him Earth-shatteringly funny.

“That’s gotta be the racket. Don’t let us leave, make us spend all our money at high-end shopping venues, and then ship us away on the next plane”. I commented.

“It’s perfect. Economic Stimulus, and they protect their organic resources from our otherwise locust like consumption.”

That was probably a pretty true piece of insight. Although I suspect the natural resources the Polish government was trying to protect were Polish girls.  My God, Man. I have never been to a place –even California— with more drop dead gorgeous girls per square mile.

Only a rave at Karl Lagerfeld’s house would surpass the beauty per capita of the streets of Warsaw.

But to see that, first we’d have to actually leave the airport. Which was – basically impossible.

Now, as a frequent traveler, I got over pretty quickly the male genetic disposition against asking for directions. In fact, as a tip to the wise, asking for directions is often he best way to escape an airport that seems otherwise designed to keep you in, and surround you with tempting tchotchkes.

We walked right up to the first peron we could find with a security badge.

“How do we get out?” I asked.

She looked at me blankly.

KP tried simplier words: “Leave? Exit?”

She shook her head, “Not information, security.” She showed us her badge.

“I’m not asking if you work for information, I’m asking if you have any. Specifically, how to get out of the airport.” I said bluntly.

“No.” she responded in kind.

“Fucking fantastic.” I said.

We walked off.

“It’s a relic of the Soviet system, she doesn’t want to be seen talking to us, in case they accuse her of being a collaborator with enemy agents.” KP said.

“We’re not enemy agents.” I said flatly.

“In Poland, everyone is an enemy agent.” KP Added.

“We’re here for your women,” I shouted. “Bring me virgins!”

“That kind of attitude will get us shot, dude.”

Eventually we did get out of the Warsaw airport, and it might have involved acts that danced rather anarchisticly with the authority. But I’ll not reveal our methods here, as such knowledge is certainly a state secret.

But the story doesn’t end there, friends.

After an amazing event, including a round of standing applause, and riding a real rock-star high. A high that was totally unexpected since I was totally unsure how my particular shtick would play when translated into polish. I went back to the airport to catch my flight to London.

Leaving the country everything seemed especially normal. Stand in line to check in, stand in line to get through security, make it through security with no real trouble, not even a passing brush against my genitalia, which was really disappointing since there are all order of tall, blonde, utterly gorgeous girls in the Warsaw Airport Police. I walk towards my gate, and I’m presented with another line.

Boarder Control.

I’m crazy confused here. I look around for other signs… but they’re all pointing as though my gate is beyond this checkpoint. I don’t want to go through here and accidently wind up outside of security. I consider briefly the effort needed to get into the country, which builds my confidence, there's no way they'd let me leave that easily. I wonder if I took a wrong turn. I look into the faces of other people in line, I recognize some from the security and ticketing lines –and they all accept this as perfectly normal. So I adopt rule of traveling #1: Fit In, and I go with the flow.

Ahead of me the boarder agent, a drop dead Amazonian blonde, is hassling some poor bastard. I dial up the charm when it’s my turn.

“Is this the way to gate 14?” I ask, a little lost, a little confused, a dash of vulnerability. Cops like that. I’m hoping that it plays well with a cop who is just hare’s breath away from being a supermodel.

“Yes,” she smiles. She flips through every page of my passport, inspecting the various visa. “Your picture doesn’t look like you.”

“I’ve lost a lot of weight. I have a driver’s license.” I show her that.

“You’re much prettier now.” She says.

“Thanks,” I say, now gushing a little bit.

She stamps my passport and says in parting: “Enjoy your stay.”

I give her the big smile, walk through, go to gate 14, board my plane and leave.

The punch-line: in Poland, they stamp your entrance visa, when you leave the country. 

So, I get dragged into an international incident in the former Soviet Block.

The Traveler: 


Prague. It’s a wonderful town. A cheep town, which is a thing of wonder in Europe. When you can have a top notch dinner for 40 bucks a head including drinks, you know you’ve found a place you need to come back to.  Apparently Prague also wasn’t totally blown to hell during the war, and as a result has much of its natural and historic beauty intact. In short… I suppose you get the point, I like it. Which is a good thing since there was a damn good chance I wasn’t going to be able to leave.

Entering the country was easy, deplane, minimal customs, observe with minor interest that the Czech national police traded their AK-47’s for MP5’s with double magazines – like both acknowledging that the AK as an international symbol is the gun of the bad guys –and that’s not them anymore, and at the same time stating quietly, we are fully prepared to jack your shit up.

In short, this was a police force to be respected, possessing an aura that suggested willingness to disappear someone if needed.

Leaving the country turned into a bit of a challenge. Mostly made worse by me.

The rules of security are different country to country, so I took a moment to familiarize myself before proceeding to the checkpoint. Fluids in bag, laptop, camera, and ipad out, they didn’t require taking off my boots, but I started to anyway.

“No-No… leave them on…” said the guy operating the metal detector.

“No, I should take them off, they’re cowboy boots, they have a steel shank”.

“Boots on.” He insisted.

When a dude with an MP5, 80 rounds of ammo, and the ability to pump all of those into you in less than 30 seconds tells you to keep your boots on, you do.

I walk through, and bleep. – of course.

We go through the rigmarole of: do I have paper, do I have coins, do I have a thermonuclear warhead in my pants, I say no and walk through again. Bleep.

“It’s the boots” I said.

He was having none of it.  He pulls me aside for a pat down. Fine. I’ve done this 1000 times, ain’t nothing but a thang, right?

Wrong. As the guard is patting me down, someone else calls over to me. “Hey buddy where you from?”

Now, I must admit that while I’m not generally into small-talk anyway, when a member of the Czech National Police is cupping my balls, I’m not what-you-wanna-call predisposed to idle chitchat.

But I was disoriented in the way you get when someone else literally has your balls in their hands, and for some dumb assed reason I answered: “Dallas, Texas.” I don’t know why… I figured this might be some kind of Soviet era interrogation technique.

It wasn’t.

It was some short, fat, random eastern European guy, with his wife and kids, looking for all the world like he’d just stepped out of Borat two.

Also worth noting was that he, his babushka, and offspring were presently surrounded by a fully functioning combat team of CNP.

I looked up into the eyes of the cop who was patting me down. He had precisely the look a guy with a sub-machinegun gets when he has your balls in his hand: Steely eye’d, tough, aggressive, and little bit uncomfortable.

I’d seen enough cold-war era movies to know how this would go. He’d say:  Do you know this man? I’d say No, fuck, he’s just some random eastern European asshole who started talking to me, and quick as shit, me and the Borat Extra would be serving life sentences in some gulag together. He’d probably teach me how to make Borsht, and I’d school him on motorcycle repair, and we’d eventually become friends, setting the stage for a made for TV movie, at least until I sold him out to the guards for better food.

Fuck.

We didn’t get a chance to have that conversation though because Borat Extra wanted to draw me further into his drama first. “So guy. In America, what do you do if they want to pat your kid down, huh?”

I grinned, smiled at the guards –yes guards, now there were two, attending me… and just kind of shrugged.

“They want to touch my kid, they don’t find nothing. Tell me is that right, they should touch my kid?” Borat Extra asked.

I turn trying to look away, and now there’s three guards on me… one is taking apart my luggage. The business class line behind me –there had been no line when I stepped up—was now like 25 people deep. Waiting or watching the spectacle I have no idea which.

The three guards, are running every article of my clothing, examining my liquids, riffling through my stuff, and yes, occasionally coming back to fondle my balls.

“I don’t know this guy…” I said to the guard. That was stupid because then he rightly asked: “Why would you say that? Why do you think we think you might know him?”

Fuck.

Now guy’s wife chimes in saying some shit in some language I don’t know… this takes Borat Extra to an all new plane of pissed off instigation. “This is a crime. You there” He points at me. “You’re a witness.”

Now I’m pissed. “I am absolutely not a fucking witness, dude. Seriously these cops could take you out back and execute you, and I won’t have seen anything.”

I look up at ball holding cop, who has since let go. “Seriously.”

“We don’t do that. Why would you say that?” he asked again.

Fuck. My instincts… my training on how to deal with situations like these was inculcated to me during the cold war. I’m a cold warrior. I don’t know how you’re supposed to act in a liberalized former Eastern Block country. I am saying and doing all the wrong things.

“I don’t fucking know dude… I’ve seen too many movies…” I say.  “I’m sorry. I appreciate you guys being thorough. We all just wanna get where we’re going safely.”

The words, or the tone were magical. That or because there was absolutely nothing to find on me… the CNP were done, with me I put my stuff away and got ready to step off…

Borat Extra wouldn’t let me leave easy though… “This is a violation of international law. You searched me and my kid, and didn’t find nothing. This is a violation of international law, you can’t hold us and make us miss our plane.” He looked at me. “You tell them.”

“Dude, international law isn’t my specialty.” I look over at the guard who is walking towards me. “I just want to get to Warsaw.”

Borat Extra heard this, “Warsaw! We go to Warsaw too… Go Dallas Cowboys!”

Fuck.

Afterward: On the Prague to Warsaw flight I was seated in Business, and fortunately Borat Extra was not. He did make the flight, though, and sat within three seats of my traveling companion (who was stuck in coach) KP, who has all order of stories of his rants and raves… but this isn’t his blog. 

So, I Run a 411 Scam on A Nigerian Prince and His Entourage…

Sorry for my absence these past weeks… I’ve been off the road finishing a major project…

Today started early, 5AM to be specific, and it started without chain smoking twenty cigarettes, and shot gunning a pot of black coffee. It started by trying to sneak out of the house as quietly as possible. I had laid out all my clothes, socks, everything, so I would only need to get up, and get to the bathroom and get dressed, and minimize the risk of accidentally waking the rabid orangutan that was at that moment occupying my bed. The orangutan doesn’t like smoke, hence no smoking. The orangutan thinks that the coffee grinder sounds like an industrialized African deforestation apparatus, so it’s Redbull over Colombian gold. The orangutan likes to sleep in… thus I’m tiptoeing around my own house like some kind of thief… 

I’m ready and out, having even gone so far as shaving the night before to minimize noise… I lean down to kiss the orangutan good bye, she says: “would you fucking leave already…”

I left.

All of this preamble serves only to illustrate that I was in what clinical psychologists refer to as: “No motherfucking mood” to be at the airport at 6am. As a consequence I’m pretty sure I can be medically deemed not responsible for what happened next.

Terminal D at DFW is simultaneously the nicest and second worst terminal** at the airport. It’s the nicest because it’s fancy, and clean and new… it looks like it was designed by Walt Disney… it’s amazing. It’s the worst because it is 3/4ths filled with tourists. It’s the international terminal, and for every qualified business passenger anticipating with dread a transatlantic flight in coach, or sorta looking forward to ten hours of relative quite and alone time in business or first class, there are ten world-class idiots off to see grandma, going on their honeymoon, or generally being in the way.

In the way being the operative turn of phrase. This was supposed to be a day trip to Houston… I had nothing but a suit jacket and a briefcase, it should have been a snap.

Of course it wasn’t. As I make it into the secure area, holding my pants up with one hand; with belt, boots, and briefcase in the other, I make my way towards the benches TSA has provided for me to get re-dressed. The benches are mostly occupied, all except one, which is literally over flowing and also surrounded by what looks to be a Nigerian prince, seven of his wives and half a dozen ministers and hangers on… 

They are of course not getting dressed having just come through security… they are just fucking sitting there. Just motherfucking sitting there like they didn’t have an Admirals Club pass, and couldn’t be bothered to wait at their gate in anticipating of boarding their plane off to some godforsaken equatorial country. So… right here they sat… where they could be as much in the way as humanly possible. Right here is where they decided to set up camp.

Suddenly I was fucking Gandolf… You Shall Not Pass (not at least without being mocked).

I foreswore the benches that were merely occupied and went to this over-occuipied bench where Prince whatever-the-fuck had sat all seven of his wives and surrounded it with his entourage… I was still carrying all my belongings in one hand, and holding my pants up with the other as I pushed my way through their crowd.

Literally, I had to push and elbow my way in. I spied a four-inch space of bench between two of the wives and sat right down in it, edging my way in, first one side, and then the other making my own seat and forcing the wives to scrunch together on either side.

I started getting dressed.

Prince I’m-Better-Than-U and several of he entourage turned to face me… they tried to create a menacing horseshoe around me. “What are you doing?” The prince asked.

“Getting dressed, it’s what these benches are for”. I said.

“We’re sitting here,” He said.

“Yes. So am I.” I said, then I added right away: “Or was I included in We’re.”

He fumed… his honor was being insulted in front of his wives and his posse, but there was little he could do, we were in the secure area of the airport, and literally five feet behind us was a platoon of TSA.

I pressed my luck. It’s what I do. I picked my bag up off the floor, made just enough room by scooting one way to set it on the bench, and then scooting back the other way to balance out… I made myself big. I made myself occupy as much space as possible.

Prince Dip-fuck-a-roo glared at me. His posse glared at me.

I asked as friendly as possible: “So where you from, man?”

“Nigeria.” He said. Cold. Bitter. Hostile.

“No Shit?” I asked.

“No Shit.” He said flatly, looking at his watch.

“Maybe you can help me with something?”

He looked at me blankly. I pressed on.

“My name is Colonel Lucky Hackworth, my uncle was a CIA operative in Africa who managed to embezzle one hundred million dollars from the Nigerian oil ministry… the money, though, is tied up in local banks. If you could help me get it out of the country – I need someone local – I would happily pay you five percent –that’s five million dollars – as a commission.”

He was nonplussed: “Do you think you’re funny?”

I smiled. “No. But you know what I think is funny. All these people trying to get redressed while standing up coming out of security because you assholes decided to camp on the benches.”

I leaned back, and spread myself out wide on the bench, basically scrunching the wives on either side, I dramatically threw my arms back on the back of the bench, such that I had nearly three wives in the arc of each arm. 

“Isn't watching those poor peasants motherfucking HI-LARIOUS?” I asked dryly.

Prince Shame-Be-Unto-U gibbered something in Nigerian to his companions, and they all got up as one and started to set off into the terminal.

I hurried to finish getting ready, and followed after them… “What about 10 percent… would you take 10 percent to help me get the money out of the country… TEN MILLION DOLLARS!!!!” I called way too loudly after them. 

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**(the worst terminal at DFW is of course terminal E, which is old, shitty, and where all the airlines OTHER than American fly out of… as a consequence it is filled 98% with tourists, 1.5 percent travelers from other hub cities, and .05% people whose companies make them chose the cheapest ticket regardless of airline preference… These people I refer to as zombies, because their self-loathing, and bad career choices cause all the life to leave their eyes.