Okay, lemme tell you about Boston. Boston is a fairly mediocre city in that it is neither exceptionally awesome, nor is it exceptionally bad. It is no Austin, Texas. Nor is it Wichita, Kansas. Those places rock, and suck ass, respectively. I would not want to live in Boston, but it was fun enough to visit. I do not have a burning desire to return, but would not hesitate to do so if the opportunity presented itself in the form of a conference, or friend’s wedding, or something like that.
That’s all I have to say about Boston. Let me tell you about the tap-dancing, Hell-forged abortion that is La Guardia airport. La Guardia is an Italian word that means, “an endless lifetime of being repeatedly kicked in the tip of the dick”. My arrival at the airport was marked by a sullen airport employee who stood at the end of the jetway, at exactly the exit, so that all the other passengers deboarding from Boston were forced to walk around him. He truly embodied New York’s official motto, which is, “Welcome to New York! We’re all cocks, go fuck yourself.”
I was starving, and my flight from Boston had left a bit late, so I only had about 30 minutes to grab something to eat. I went over to grab a fork and some napkins and this horrific barnacle on the ass of humanity is just standing there, taking up all the space, staring at her fucking boarding pass like it’s turned into a picture of Snow White fisting each of the dwarfs, two at a time. So I’m like, “Excuse me” and I gesture to how she’s blocking every fucking thing that I need access to, and she takes a step CLOSER to the counter. So I say, “Excuse me, I’d like to get some napkins.” And she takes a tiny half step to the side. Towards the napkins. So I grab a fork, now that I can do so easily, go around her, and grab some napkins from the side, muttering, “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, lady.”
I scarf down my food and listen to announcements like this, “The flight to Baltimore is no longer departing from Gate 4 and is now departing from Gate 1. Norfolk is not departing from Gate 6, and is now departing from Gate 4. Gate 3 is now renumbered to Gate 5, and Gate 1 and 2 will merge to become Gate 7. Gate 7 is currently shut down for repairs and passengers should use Gate 6. Gate 6 has been relocated to Gate 2, but has not been renumbered. Gate 8 contains an evil horse that will rape you, but it has been renumbered to gate 6 or 4, we can’t remember.”
After eating I hit my gate just before boarding, only to find out that they’re not boarding yet. Why? Who the fuck knows? Not anyone who works there, that’s for damn sure. I exchange texts with my brother, who is picking me up
“I think I’m going to be late. La Guardia is a clusterfuck dry-humping a buttfuckathon.”
“Now they’re saying they are waiting for clearance to board from the pilot, who is apparently off taking a shit somewhere or fucking a clown or something.”
“I’m surprised they were willing to conjecture like that over the PA.”
“It’s New York, not Omaha.”
“If La Guardia were a person I would stab it in the ear with a rusty coat hanger.”
So finally they let us board and then they make us sit around, thumbs in asses, while they do something? I don’t know. They kept saying ridiculously dumb things like, “Even though we’re running behind schedule, it’s a quick 30 minute flight to Baltimore, and we should be there in plus or minus 15 minutes of our originally scheduled landing time.” Did you read all that? What in sweet dirty mud-fucking shit does that mean? The way I figure it, no one ever taught them how time works, and they were just saying numbers. I mean, how is 30 minutes any more or less than 30 minutes? A quick thirty minutes is the same as a slow thirty minutes. It’s thirty fucking minutes. It doesn’t change. And since it doesn’t change, saying plus or /minus/ 15 minutes is idiotic. That would require some sound-barrier breaking speeds. Why not just say, “We’ll be in Baltimore in 30 minutes, hopefully, but no later than 45.” What a bunch of dicks.
La Gaurdia, I hope the Devil himself climbs out of Hell and personally teabags you for a thousand years with his sweaty goat-balls.