The hunt begins at birth; the mission becomes clearer and clearer. But no man can act alone. By cross-referencing Google Flights, Kayak, Expedia, Hopper, and Delta’s Twitter bot, you should be able to secure and execute your destiny: a $650 ticket from Denver to Minneapolis via Kansas City.
I went down a river once when I was a kid. There’s a place in the river—I can’t remember—that must have been a gardenia plantation or flower plantation at one time. It’s all wild and overgrown now, but for about five miles, you’d think heaven just fell on the earth in the form of gardenias. For the voyage, I packed one native pelt, a pound of water buffalo jerky, and my machete. That should suffice for your six days at Disneyland Paris.
I watched a snail crawl along the edge of a straight razor. That’s my dream; that’s my nightmare. Crawling, slithering, along the edge of a straight razor… and surviving. My other nightmare was when my Uber took a wrong turn on my way to LAX, and I missed my flight to Hanoi by ten minutes.
It’s impossible for words to describe what is necessary to those who do not know what horror means. But I’ll give it a shot: the TSA line.
A man came to this village once. He bore credentials I had yet to see before. Or since. A CLEAR representative, he called himself. I let him in. He investigated my eyes, my thumbs. He told me he was scanning them. Upon arrival at Chicago Midway, I was met with a grim fate. It wouldn’t read them. It wouldn’t read them.
You’re an errand boy sent by grocery clerks to collect a bill. I see; I am mistaken. You are a steward of this Chili’s Too. In that case, I will have an order of Southwestern eggrolls and a Tiki Beach Party margarita.
Have you ever considered any real freedoms? Freedoms in the opinion of others. Even in the opinions of yourself? Because they’re all out the window at this overcrowded American Airlines Admirals Club.
Are my methods unsound? Oh, I apologize to my fellow travelers in row 26. My Bluetooth headphones haven’t connected to my phone, so it’s been blaring “The Soft Parade” into your eyeballs.
If I were to be killed, I would want someone to go to my home and tell my son everything. Everything I did, everything you saw. Because there is nothing I detest more than the stench of lies. To do that, you’ll have to make it to Georgia and its Atlanta Hartsfield-Jackson Airport. On second thought, I detest Hartsfield more. So to recap: Atlanta’s airport, one. Lies, two. In the detestation rankings.
We train young men to drop fire on people, but their commanders won’t allow them to write “fuck” on their airplanes because it’s obscene! I’ll tell you what’s obscene: those furry animals on the side of the Frontier crafts.
As long as cold beer, hot food, rock ’n’ roll, and all the other amenities remain the expected norm, our conduct of the war will only gain impotence. Also, the United flight attendant said they were out of everything besides the Tapas Snackbox.