Today, I’m flying to California with my two younger sons (El Chupacabra and the oldest will fly out on Saturday after camp) where we will celebrate Christmas and New Years, as well as, five family birthdays! Mmmm, good times…
Our flight is delayed. But I don’t mind at all! Really, I don’t. I hate flying so much that every time they announce another 5 minute delay, I feel like my life has been extended by God…like as a personal favor…and I give him a little “thanks for letting me live” nod. I seriously hate flying. Hate it. It fills me with dread so that every time I buy airfare, I think to my self, “This can’t end well…”
So here I am, in our little Juan Santa Maria International airport…waiting to die. I totally understand the statistics behind it and everything, I know that I have a much greater chance being killed in a car accident than a plane crash. That’s totally fine with me – I’m not afraid of dying. I am, however, afraid of falling out of the sky. The idea of…
You have GOT to be kidding me! ….I’m sorry, can you hold on a sec?
Um, hey Slappy! Yeah, you and your leathery friend. *Pointing*, YOU, the two guys shouting about your skanky Costa Rican sexploits. Um, could you please, please, PLEASE shut the hell up?? Pretty please? I mean, it’s cool and all, how you “got busy” with the fat chick in red boots, and also that hot blond that stupidly asked you for taxi money afterward. And I’m real happy that the dirty hooker only charged you 40 bucks. That’s just great! No, really…it’s awesome. I mean, I can’t get enough of your sleazy, morning-after voices, loudly recounting how you left your wife and kid at home and found your way here, where you, apparently, porked one third of the female population. Good for you. But, if you could just, you know, like, tone it down a little? No, no, not for me, I mean, I am a prudish missionary and everything, but I’m asking for the sake of my 9 and 11 year old sons who don’t yet appreciate terms like “delicious piece of snake bait“ or,…what was that other one? Oh, yes, I think you actually used the words “bar-fly-macaroni-muncher”. Mmm, yeah. So maybe, take it down a notch? or six? That would be super. Thanks. And, by the way, I’m not exactly sure what “making a splash landing” means, but I’m pretty sure that whatever you “splashed” into was just brimming with gonorrhea. Oh, and, I hope your wiener rots off. And that your poor wife leaves your old, leathery ass and finds herself a young, rich, male-supermodel that values her as a human being while simultaneously filling you with feelings of inadequacy. I say that with love. And grace. I’m a missionary, you know….Oh, and Jesus loves you!
And now, they’re calling us to board, so I didn’t even get to finish my rant about my fear of going splat…which I’m pretty sure I’m about to do….
If I never blog again, I want you to know, this has been cool. Thanks for reading, friends.