The lecture continues. The next thing they advise me to do is locate my nearest emergency exit. Well, I do so immediately. I locate my nearest emergency exit, and I plan my escape route. You have to plan your escape route. It’s not always a straight line, is it? No. Sometimes there’s a really big, fat fuck sitting right in front of you.

Well, I know I’ll never be able to climb over him, so I look around for women and children, midgets and dwarfs, cripples, elderly widows, paralyzed veterans, and people with broken legs. Anyone who looks like they don’t move too well. The emotionally disturbed come in very handy at a time like this. It’s true I may have to go out of my way to find some of these people, but I’ll get out of the plane a whole lot quicker, believe you me.

My strategy is clear: I’ll go around the fat fuck, step on the widow’s head, push those children aside, knock down the paralyzed midget, and escape from the plane. In order, of course, to assist the other passengers who are still trapped inside the burning wreckage. After all, I can be of no help to anyone if I’m lying in the aisle, unconscious, with some big cocksucker standing on my neck. I must get out of the plane, make my way to a nearby farmhouse, have a Dr Pepper, and call the police.

The safety lecture continues: “In the unlikely event . . .” This is a very suspect phrase, especially coming as it does from an industry that is willing to lie about arrival and departure times. “In the unlikely event of a sudden change in cabin pressure . . .” roof flies off!! “. . . an oxygen mask will drop down in front of you. Place the mask over your face and breathe normally.” Well, no problem there. I always breathe normally when I’m in an uncontrolled, 600-mile-an-hour vertical dive. I also shit normally. Directly into my pants.

Then they tell me to adjust my oxygen mask before helping my child with his. Well, that’s one thing I didn’t need to be told. In fact, I’m probably going to be too busy screaming to help my child at all. This will be a good time for him to learn self-reliance. If he can surf the fucking Internet, he can goddamn, jolly well learn to adjust an oxygen mask. It’s a fairly simple thing: just a little elastic band in the back. Not nearly as complicated as, say, a seat belt.

The safety lecture continues: “In the unlikely event of a water landing . . .” A water landing! Am I mistaken, or does this sound somewhat similar to “crashing into the ocean”? “. . . your seat cushion can be used as a flotation device.” Well, imagine that. My seat cushion! Just what I need: to float around the North Atlantic for several days, clinging to a pillow full of beer farts.

The announcements suddenly cease. We’re about to take off. Time for me to drift off to sleep, so the captain can later awaken me repeatedly with the many valuable sight-seeing announcements he will be making along the way. I’m always amazed at the broad knowledge these men have of the United States. And some of them apparently have really good eyesight:

“For you folks seated on the left side of the plane, that’s old Ben Hubbard’s place down there. And whaddeya know, there’s Ben comin’ out onto his porch right now. What’s he doin? By God, he’s pickin’ his nose. Wow! Look at that one! That is one prize booger. And look, he’s throwin’ it into a bush. Ain’t that just like old Ben? Over on the right . . .”

Zzzzzzzz.

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Suddenly I’m awake. The flight is almost over, and somehow, along the way, the captain has become politicized. His latest offering:

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have just begun our gradual descent into the Los Angeles area, similar in many ways to the gradual descent of this once great nation from a proud paragon of God-fearing virtue to a third-rate power awash in violence, sexual excess, and personal greed . . .”

I drift off again and awaken just as the end-of-flight announcements are being made: “The captain has turned on the Fasten Seat Belt sign.” Here we go again. Who gives a shit who turned on the sign? What does that have to do with anything? It’s on, isn’t it? And by the way, isn’t it about time we found out who made this man a captain? Did I sleep through some sort of armed-forces swearing-in ceremony? Captain, my ass, the man is a fucking pilot, and he should be happy with that. If those sight-seeing announcements are any mark of his intelligence, the man’s lucky to be working at all.

Having endured enough nonsense from this so-called captain, I finally raise my voice: “Tell the captain, Air Marshal Carlin says he should go fuck himself!”

The next sentence I hear is filled with language that pisses me off: “Before leaving the aircraft, please check around your immediate seating area for any personal belongings you might have brought on board.” Well, let’s start with “immediate seating area.” Seat! It’s a goddamn seat! “For any personal belongings . . .” Well, what other kinds of belongings do they think I have? Public? Do they honestly think I brought along a fountain I stole from the park? “. . . you might have brought on board.” Well, I might have brought my Shoshone arrowhead collection. I didn’t. So I’m not going to look for it.

Then they say we’ll be “landing shortly.” Doesn’t that sound like we’re going to miss the runway? “Final approach” is not too promising either. “Final” is not a good word to be using on an airplane. Sometimes the pilot will speak up and say, “We’ll be on the ground in fifteen minutes.” Well, that seems a little vague. “On the ground” could mean any number of things. Most of them not very good.

By this time we’re taxiing in, and the flight attendant is saying, “Welcome to Los Angeles International Airport . . .” Well, how can someone who is just arriving herself possibly welcome me to a place she hasn’t gotten to yet? Doesn’t this violate some law of physics? We’ve been on the ground barely four seconds, and she’s comin’ on like the mayor’s wife. “. . . where the local time . . .” Well, of course it’s the local time. What did they think I was expecting? The time in Norway?

“Enjoy your stay in Los Angeles or wherever your final destination might be.” Someone should really tell these airline people that all destinations are final. That’s what destination means. Destiny. It’s final. Think of it this way: if you haven’t gotten where you’re going, you probably aren’t there yet.

“The captain has asked . . .” More shit from the bogus captain. You know, for someone who’s supposed to be flying an airplane, he’s taking a mighty big interest in what I’m doing back here. “. . . that you remain seated until he has brought the aircraft to a complete stop.” A complete stop. Not a partial stop. No. Because during a partial stop, I partially get up, partially get my bags, and partially leave the plane.

“Please continue to observe the No Smoking sign until well inside the terminal.” Folks, I’ve tried this. Let me tell you it is physically impossible to observe the No Smoking sign, even from just outside the airplane, much less from well inside the terminal. In fact, you can’t even see the airplanes from well inside the terminal.

Which brings us to “terminal.” Another unfortunate word to be using in association with air travel. And they use it all over the airport, don’t they? Somehow, I can’t get hungry at a place called the Terminal Restaurant. Then again, if you’ve ever eaten there, you know the name is quite appropriate.

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Most vitamin pills don’t have names or trademarks on them; they’re just plain-looking unmarked pills. And if you’re traveling with a lot of vitamins, and in order to save space you’ve put them all in one big jar, you have no way of proving what they are. If, for instance, the police should search your suitcase, all they’re going to know is that you have a big jar of unmarked pills. And should they be in the mood to break your balls, they can hold you for twenty-four hours while they “send these little things down to the lab and see what we’ve got here.” And you wind up in jail overnight for no reason at all.