Inspiration takes off
The scene at the airport is crazy. The people, the planes, the parking.
People wait in incredibly long lines, expecting to be assigned a window seat (or at least one far away from the crapper). Staff from several airlines sit behind their counter, telling fliers the only seats remaining are the ones beside the facilities. Various loud conversations in multiple languages are heard as you step over large suitcases filled with too much clothing and not enough underwear.
Like I said, crazy.
The reason why I am slumming with the rest of the jet-set glitterati is because my father, Ari (not his real name), is going away on a much deserved vacation. He's been talking about this break for the past few months. Yet, the closer the date gets, the more panic-stricken he looks. The man is stressed.
Following his orders, we arrive three hours early because he believes if he avoids the rush, he can get a seat near the front of the plane, away from the can, and beside the window. Maybe watching the clouds roll by will calm him down. Well, that and a Xanax.
After waiting in line, and getting the seat assignment (ha ha - no window seat), it's time to kill two hours and fourty-five minutes. I tell my father to walk around because his ass will be kissing cushion for at least six hours. If he doesn't want to exercise his brain with a book, he can at least exercise his legs with a couple of laps.
As we walk towards the shops, I see a man who is huffing his way along the corridor. He must be at least 12,000 pounds. No, really. Twelve-thousand-fucking-pounds. His mass is so overwhelming, it takes up an entire orbit, and has the possibility of collapsing unknown galaxies into itself.
"You know, if you don't lose some weight on vacation, you'll resemble that man over there," I say as I nod my head in the direction of Attila the Hun.
My father pulls a Linda Blair.
"You mean I'll be in a wheelchair?"
Wow. He doesn't get it. I think it's an easy joke to laugh at. It even has visuals. Huge visuals, the size of Texas. I mean, come on, Dad. I'm trying to lessen your stress of flying. Laugh, damnit, laugh. Jesus, if you can't take a cheap shot at the sake of another, then why bother trying?
"Forget it," I reply as we continue walking.
After spending time walking around, drinking some juice, and taking three bathroom breaks, he's dropped off at the gate.
Before entering the boarding area, he turns around, smiles, and waves. I wave back. He goes in. A little tear forms in the corner of my eye. My biggest source of comic inspiration is leaving me for four months. I don't know how I'll ever cope.
People wait in incredibly long lines, expecting to be assigned a window seat (or at least one far away from the crapper). Staff from several airlines sit behind their counter, telling fliers the only seats remaining are the ones beside the facilities. Various loud conversations in multiple languages are heard as you step over large suitcases filled with too much clothing and not enough underwear.
Like I said, crazy.
The reason why I am slumming with the rest of the jet-set glitterati is because my father, Ari (not his real name), is going away on a much deserved vacation. He's been talking about this break for the past few months. Yet, the closer the date gets, the more panic-stricken he looks. The man is stressed.
Following his orders, we arrive three hours early because he believes if he avoids the rush, he can get a seat near the front of the plane, away from the can, and beside the window. Maybe watching the clouds roll by will calm him down. Well, that and a Xanax.
After waiting in line, and getting the seat assignment (ha ha - no window seat), it's time to kill two hours and fourty-five minutes. I tell my father to walk around because his ass will be kissing cushion for at least six hours. If he doesn't want to exercise his brain with a book, he can at least exercise his legs with a couple of laps.
As we walk towards the shops, I see a man who is huffing his way along the corridor. He must be at least 12,000 pounds. No, really. Twelve-thousand-fucking-pounds. His mass is so overwhelming, it takes up an entire orbit, and has the possibility of collapsing unknown galaxies into itself.
"You know, if you don't lose some weight on vacation, you'll resemble that man over there," I say as I nod my head in the direction of Attila the Hun.
My father pulls a Linda Blair.
"You mean I'll be in a wheelchair?"
Wow. He doesn't get it. I think it's an easy joke to laugh at. It even has visuals. Huge visuals, the size of Texas. I mean, come on, Dad. I'm trying to lessen your stress of flying. Laugh, damnit, laugh. Jesus, if you can't take a cheap shot at the sake of another, then why bother trying?
"Forget it," I reply as we continue walking.
After spending time walking around, drinking some juice, and taking three bathroom breaks, he's dropped off at the gate.
Before entering the boarding area, he turns around, smiles, and waves. I wave back. He goes in. A little tear forms in the corner of my eye. My biggest source of comic inspiration is leaving me for four months. I don't know how I'll ever cope.
Authored by S at 12:00 am
2 Comments:
I'm sure you'll find some comic inspiration in his absence. You've got the knack! I know it's not 'nice' to crack on a persons weight, but it's almost justifiable in a weird way, if it's out of earshot...especially if you know the person and have other issues with them. There was a 'large' woman at work, whom I had a particular dislike for (it was mutual), and on the way out one night, she was bent over putting something into her car. I was walking with several people, and as we approached her (behind her back), I started turning in a circle, moving closer to her big behind as if her gravitational force was so strong, it was pulling me into her orbit. ONE of the five people I was with, got it. Sheesh! Wasted humor.
Maybe he wasn't 12,000 pounds, but he was close.
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