Can’t Get Enough

You may have noticed we are rolling out some test mode password protected posts. These extra posts will supplement your daily diet of inelegant Photoshop work and New Romantic op-eds. They may detail such things as ACTUAL PLACES Lambchop and I go and ACTUAL THINGS we do, with ACTUAL PHOTOS, which may or may not be dirty. You know us. If you would like to request a password (or kvetch or shower us with golden praise, for that matter), you may do so with this form: aptly named Contact Us.

The other day, I went ON A PLANE. No one jumped out of an escape slide, and no one died, so it was an all together devastating experience. Of course I reviewed Licketysplit‘s Top Tips for Travel prior to boarding. I didn’t have to worry about this one:

If a child is annoying you, take it aside and kindly explain that you will flush it down the toilet, where it will immediately freeze solid as soon as it hits the outside air, followed by a 30,000 foot plummet into someone’s rumpus room.

Because Mr. H was sitting next to the child. He refused my offers of Canadian Xanax, and that is his loss. More for Lambchop and me. Oh piffle, chickens, I do not have to go all the way to Canada to get my pills. That is for other people. I have a crooked medical staff right here at home, although that staff’s receipt of an actual medical degree is potentially up for debate.

One thing my tips did NOT cover was this situation: A well-highlighted middle-aged harpy who still thinks she is very, very cute was sitting in the aisle diagonally across from me. When the flight attendant came around, she chirped “Oh! I know you! I remember you from another flight!” The attendant’s spine stiffened, and he flatly yet pleasantly replied “Coffee or tea, ma’am?”

“Oh, I will have the coffee,” she yipped. “It’s Dunkin’ Donuts, right?”

“It is, ma’am.”

“YES!” She actually fist pumped for Dunkin’ Donuts coffee. “Yay!” She stamped her booted feet in a little end zone dance.

Here I was left floundering. I restrained myself from slapping her across the side of the head with my copy of Half Empty. Reading David Rakoff and then witnessing such a display is a recipe for homicide if ever there were one. I would have sued him if I had actually hit her, of course.

Somehow, I simultaneously caught the eye of both Ashton the hapless and recognizable flight attendant and the girl to my left, and we all exchanged a silent anguished moan of pity and rage. What to do, indeed?

Well, on the return trip, I refrained from even making eye contact with Ashton. I am sure we both appreciated this small courtesy in the face of such epidemic joyfulness.

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