When last we left our hero, he was receiving a two-day send-off befitting the grandeur of his bearing and the grace with which he functions in today’s mire. Unfortunately, his heartless “friends” deserted him, alone, to the vicious caprices of fate and the hazardous environs of Day’s Inn near Denver International Airport.
After taking his sleeping pills, our hero was disrobing in preparation for sleep when his right arm accidentally struck a sharpened corner of the wall, causing a significant portion of flesh to become violently sheared off the back of his hand.
Oh no! thought our hero. That crucial part of my hand will be grasped firmly during repeated handshake encounters! Whatever shall I do? Will the mysterious Japan-man think less of me should I cringe during his crushing handshake? Will my weakness be interpreted as an individual affliction, or will my wincing disgrace not only myself by also the culture which produced me?
Luckily, artificially-induced sleep was setting in, and our hero was spared too much worry. He was soon asleep on his square King-sized bed, clutching a Kleenex to his hand in a valiant effort to staunch the flow of blood and prevent his lifeforce from leaving his body.
Dreamless slumber cradled our hero for approximately five hours at which point it was interrupted by a thoughtless Days Inn desk clerk telephoning him to wake up. After cursing the man, our hero slammed the phone down and stalked into the bathroom, where he enjoyed a significant bowel movement and hot shower.
Hours later, after having already suffered one cramped flight to Texas and a two-hour delay at Dallas Fort-Worth Airport, our hero found himself confined to a torturous iron seat located in the rear of the dimmed economy-class cabin on a Boeing 777 traveling approximately 500 miles per hour high above the Bering Straight.
To his right slept the second largest man on the plane, an Asian fellow unable to speak English but gifted instead with convenient narcolepsy. To his left lay the aisle of the plane, the lane in which our hero’s sandal-clad foot was repeatedly overran by a one-ton drink cart, and where his shoulder was repeatedly jostled by the flaring hips of menopausal flight attendants who enjoyed sashaying wildly up and down the path at the very instant in which merciful sleep was poised to overtake him.
Just inches in front of our hero and practically in his lap was the seat in front of him, armored by a stowed plastic tray table, the lower edge of which was becoming progressively buried underneath our hero’s kneecaps in a most excruciating fashion.
Embedded in the top portion of the seat in front of him was a miniature television monitor upon which Charlize Theron was struggling valiantly to breath life into the dull and insipid action/sci-fi vehicle Aeon Flux. This miserable excuse of a film, which played every two hours, was the only respite from which our hero could distract himself from the agony of his condition.
The monotony of the journey was punctuated by our hero’s casual and occasional observation of his foot. Aside from the angrily-red tread imprints from the drink-cart, our poor hero’s foot was ballooning outward from the straps of his sandals. This mysterious and hideous effect often affects our hero during the horrors of air travel, the ungodly and unnatural forces of which cause his noble blood to sink to his lower extremities, puffing out his skin until his feet become brick-like in both general shape and color.
Anyhoo, imagine 13-14 hours of this, and you get the general idea. Next entry, you’ll learn if our hero survived the journey due to his resilience, determination, and superhuman endurance, or if the forces of airline evil finally succeeded in ending his brave and vibrant life through new and creative ways of inflicting unspeakable agony.
Until then, try to enjoy this picture, which symbolizes our hero’s plight.
After taking his sleeping pills, our hero was disrobing in preparation for sleep when his right arm accidentally struck a sharpened corner of the wall, causing a significant portion of flesh to become violently sheared off the back of his hand.
Oh no! thought our hero. That crucial part of my hand will be grasped firmly during repeated handshake encounters! Whatever shall I do? Will the mysterious Japan-man think less of me should I cringe during his crushing handshake? Will my weakness be interpreted as an individual affliction, or will my wincing disgrace not only myself by also the culture which produced me?
Luckily, artificially-induced sleep was setting in, and our hero was spared too much worry. He was soon asleep on his square King-sized bed, clutching a Kleenex to his hand in a valiant effort to staunch the flow of blood and prevent his lifeforce from leaving his body.
Dreamless slumber cradled our hero for approximately five hours at which point it was interrupted by a thoughtless Days Inn desk clerk telephoning him to wake up. After cursing the man, our hero slammed the phone down and stalked into the bathroom, where he enjoyed a significant bowel movement and hot shower.
Hours later, after having already suffered one cramped flight to Texas and a two-hour delay at Dallas Fort-Worth Airport, our hero found himself confined to a torturous iron seat located in the rear of the dimmed economy-class cabin on a Boeing 777 traveling approximately 500 miles per hour high above the Bering Straight.
To his right slept the second largest man on the plane, an Asian fellow unable to speak English but gifted instead with convenient narcolepsy. To his left lay the aisle of the plane, the lane in which our hero’s sandal-clad foot was repeatedly overran by a one-ton drink cart, and where his shoulder was repeatedly jostled by the flaring hips of menopausal flight attendants who enjoyed sashaying wildly up and down the path at the very instant in which merciful sleep was poised to overtake him.
Just inches in front of our hero and practically in his lap was the seat in front of him, armored by a stowed plastic tray table, the lower edge of which was becoming progressively buried underneath our hero’s kneecaps in a most excruciating fashion.
Embedded in the top portion of the seat in front of him was a miniature television monitor upon which Charlize Theron was struggling valiantly to breath life into the dull and insipid action/sci-fi vehicle Aeon Flux. This miserable excuse of a film, which played every two hours, was the only respite from which our hero could distract himself from the agony of his condition.
The monotony of the journey was punctuated by our hero’s casual and occasional observation of his foot. Aside from the angrily-red tread imprints from the drink-cart, our poor hero’s foot was ballooning outward from the straps of his sandals. This mysterious and hideous effect often affects our hero during the horrors of air travel, the ungodly and unnatural forces of which cause his noble blood to sink to his lower extremities, puffing out his skin until his feet become brick-like in both general shape and color.
Anyhoo, imagine 13-14 hours of this, and you get the general idea. Next entry, you’ll learn if our hero survived the journey due to his resilience, determination, and superhuman endurance, or if the forces of airline evil finally succeeded in ending his brave and vibrant life through new and creative ways of inflicting unspeakable agony.
Until then, try to enjoy this picture, which symbolizes our hero’s plight.
3 comments:
Some people just type "LOL" out of courtesy, but the description of cutting your hand truly did make me LOL! The shattered silence stunnedpoor Moon.
Glad to see you've started The Sot-Weed Factor.
Oh yeah. Photobucket.com. Forget the Blogger-based images.... unless you really want them.
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