The Friendly Skies Have Died a Horrible Death

By Tresckow

Who the hell enjoys flying anymore? Sadists, maybe. Big business, the federal government, and shitheads trying to get into some version of heaven by wearing shoes filled with poorly made explosives and kooky dreams have changed what was once a pleasant and exciting experience. There used to be a time when EVERYONE would get a healthy portion of peanuts and all the soft drinks one bladder could hold. Of course, this was back in the day when you didn't have to wear a hospital gown and get felt up by some security guard drop out masquerading as 007.

Even this picture of 007 has more of its shit together than any TSA rent-a-cop.

Flying coast to coast is especially heinous (rhymes with anus). I used to do it on a regular basis for a job I had. A horrible, horrible job. One that was the modern equivalent of a sweat shop run by the Three Stooges... but I digress. A lot.

The flying cattle cars airplanes have become have put me off intercontinental travel. But, what can you do? You sure as shit don't have any other options. How else are you supposed to get to the third world side of the US without investing a ridiculous amount of time? Conestoga wagon? I'm all out of oxen. Train? Hell no, that shit takes FOREVER and can be a poop sack of expenses making the outrageous airfare rape look reasonable. So, OK, I'm stuck. The travel Mafia's got me. Assholes.

That schmuck in the VIP ticket line really belongs in coach. Want me should explain it to him?

So I receive this mandate from Adel that I need to report to Northern Idaho for her wedding. Yeah, someone is self loathing enough to fasten that ball and chain around his ankle. Poor sommabitch. Can't he develop a crippling alcohol dependency like a normal person?

This guy may be sloppy drunk and face down in a urinal, but at least he still has his self respect.

As I was saying, I received my standing orders to report to Adel's wedding. Aside from being forced to wear a tux I had to socialize with a motley crew of ex IRA, British blowhards, and a generous helping of motorcycle gang. You read that right. Guess which two groups are related to Ren? Did I mention that Adel's hubby is Ren's brother? That probably explains the self loathing thing.

Somebody get this guy some Vicodin and a gun.

Being the only FWTC writer not in the Pacific Northwest, I have to drag my ass to meet everyone else. Truthfully, this whole thing really should have been done to accommodate MY needs. But, noooooooo. The little princess has to have things HER way. Selfish. Just plain selfish.

Planning the flight itinerary is a pain in the ass, in its own right. Trying to find a flight that won't require the sale of an internal organ on the black market AND doesn't leave at o'dark thirty is basically impossible. It's the travel equivalent of getting a boiling hot sandpaper enema. Take a bit to let that one sink in.

I mean, really think about it.

I wasn't able to do either of the above. My flight was scheduled to leave at 6 AM and I did have to sell one of my kidneys to finance the trip. At least I have what's left of my liver. I plan on killing that bastard before, during, and after the wedding ceremony. So, yay me!

I figured, what the hell, I might as well just stay up, since I have to leave my abode by 4 AM. I spent the night re-watching the Sons of Anarchy season finale, a ton of Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares, and the last half of Young Guns. Then I made like a tree and got the hell out of Dodge. After loading up on mass quantities of caffeine enriched goodness, that is. Guess what? It was a completely fucktarded idea to stay up all night. Chalk another grand decision made using my flawless logic.

Thou has forsaken me!

After driving to the airport parking dealy I went to claim my boarding pass. One would think this would be relatively easy, since we live in modern times with technological marvels spouting from every orifice. I made the mistake of checking in from my home office. True to form, my printer decided to run out of ink, despite the system telling me that the cartridge was half full. Someone's a liar.

I'll tend to that lying software when I get back.

I could, at least, pay for my checked baggage (read: bullshit charge) at a discounted rate. I had to argue with the self check in kiosk for ten minutes; it insisting I didn't need a boarding pass, but the ticket agent telling me otherwise. The option she kept telling me to select simply did not exist on the damn screen. So, after a bit of cursing and slight computer abuse, I finally got the paperwork. My bag was tagged and it was on its way. I wouldn't see that bad boy until the day AFTER I arrived. More on that joy later.

Want to see a magic trick? Watch the airline ground crew make this shit disappear.

The particular airport I was departing from is a shit hole. They're repainting it and attempting to make it look less like an inner city dump. But, as the old saying goes, you can gift wrap a turd all you want. Inside, it's still a turd.


At this un-Godly hour of the morning, none of the eateries were open. I hadn't had anything to eat since my dinner of munchkins and air. I figured I could iron man it. I'll shell out some dough on the flight to buy infuriatingly over priced "breakfasts." Guess what, United. A bagel that is french toast flavored does NOT constitute a french toast breakfast. For $4 I expect, at least, some sort of meat.

For the love of God, how much could Spam in bulk cost?

But, before the breakfast debacle, I ended up sitting at the gate with the millions of others waiting for the flight. Per usual, I scanned the crowd looking for people I have no desire to sit next to. This really doesn't do much good, but imagining their heads exploding makes me happy. The odd thing was that I didn't spot one single mullet. Coast to coast flights usually have one or two people that believe business should be in the front and the party, most definitely, in the back. I was a little disappointed.

The lack of hockey hair did leave me feeling a little empty inside.

I did manage to sit near a young couple with a kid that couldn't have been more than a year old. The kid looked at me as if to say, "I am going to ruin your shit the ENTIRE FLIGHT!" I knew this was a bad sign. The lack of the mullet people surely meant that the travel gods had something even better in store for me. The lack of rotund passengers meant that this kid was going to be the problem de jour of the flight.

This should be standard issue on EVERY flight, just like the barf bag and broken headphones.

Herded like cattle onto the plane, I was grateful that my row-mates were little women. Not midgets, but small. One was Chinese and the other about 300 years old. It was just awesome that the old bag had no idea how to turn her cell off. The entire plane had to friggin wait until grandma figure out how to cut the power. I was seconds close to just ripping the battery out, but someone managed to complete the complicated task of pushing the RED button to shut the damn thing off. Damn these new fangled gadgets!

Still too complicated for the blue hair crowd.

The plane was roughly 40% Chinese passengers. I hate Chinese. No, I'm not spouting racism. I'm talking about the language. I don't really like or hate the Chinese, as a people. I'm sort of indifferent. Alright, that whole "Great Leap Forward" thing was a joke. I mean, come on. Willing an entire country stuck in the 1800's to be technologically advanced doesn't make it so. Then again, any governmental policy the results in thousands of deaths is one I can get behind. And I'm not sure that laying concrete in the rain is going to do wonders for the Three Gorges Dam (We WILL be technological savvy TODAY!).

Nevermind. We're sure China will do just fine.

So, I guess I'm really a language-ist. I hate the Chinese language. It doesn't sound as subtle and romantic as German or as elegant as Icelandic. Each syllable is a finger nail on the proverbial chalk board to me. Yeah, I said it. I hate the Chinese language. What are you going to do about it, China? I hate the romance languages too. Don't like it? Piss off.

Typo: "Your" should be in there, somewhere.

Once the flight took off and the normal bullshit was completed, the little meal cart came out. At least United gives you the entire can of soda. I've been on others that pour your drink into a Dixie Cup filled with ice. I'm an adult. Give me the whole can! How much money are you actually saving by rationing soda like that? I hear the next step is using pay toilets. All I have to say about that is: ASSHOLES!

Remember that kid in the terminal I told you about? This is when his diabolical plan comes to fruition. As soon as everyone gets into that feel good "We're staying in the air and not going to crash" zone the kid starts to cry. OK, fine. It happens. Whatever. I've heard that the difference in air pressure can do that to a rug rat. I noticed something, though. The kid only cried when a passenger fell asleep.

I know what you're thinking. I thought it was coincidence, too. So, I did a Jane Goodall with the chimps type thing and observed the little monster from the safety of my duck blind. When everyone in our section was awake, the kid was sleeping like... well a baby. As soon as some poor bastard in row 22 dozed off, BAM! Screaming kid. I don't know if this was the work of some sort of infant evil genius or if there were more sinister factors involved. Either way, the parents didn't appreciate the Jack Daniels/NyQuil cocktail I sent over.

Maybe I should have sent a NyQuil on the rocks.

To top the first leg of the trip off the only movie they showed was Elf. ELF! Just because it's the Christmas season doesn't mean innocent bystanders must be subjected to holiday themed comedy abortions with Will Ferrell wielding the rusty scalpel.

You are not funny, Will Ferrell! There were more yucks during Schindler's List.

Landing in San Francisco, I realized that I had exactly thirty minutes to make my connecting flight to Spokane. No problem. The lady pilot knew her shit. For once I wasn't on a plane that felt like it was dive bombing Berlin. Her landing was as smooth as Billy D. Williams.

And you know that mofo's smooth.

The issue was that our gate was blocked by another plane. That's right, everyone on my flight had to suffer for some slow ass who couldn't read a clock. There is no excuse to leave so friggin late that you completely fuck up another flight's schedule. What the hell were they waiting for? I don't care! You screwing up my shit!

And now you've pissed off Billy D.

Take the thirty minute window I had, smash it with a sledge hammer and set it on fire. I barely made the puddle jumper to Spokane with NO TIME TO SPARE. I was the last one on the plane. If I had missed it I would have had to spend time in San Francisco. Who the hell wants to do that?

Here is where the real airplane joy began. I had a window seat. No big deal, it's cool. That just means I don't have to get up to accommodate some ass clown's bladder. I can just listen to my iPod and relax for two hours. No. There would be no relaxing. There would be no joy. There would be no personal space. As if to get even with me for not sitting next to one of America's spherically challenged on the first flight, I was consigned to airplane hell on this trip. Some vindictive SOB sat me next to either the worst Gallagher or the best David Crosby look-a-like in history.

You try sitting next to THIS.

It was an orchestra of sounds with this asstard. I'm cool if you want to sleep on a flight. I try to. But, when you start to audibly snore and bob your head like an ornament on a taxi's dash, there's a problem. His big, meaty leg kept crossing the personal space boundary. We all have to abide by the imaginary line that divides our cramped seats on flights. It's common courtesy. No one wants to feel your warm, sweaty leg rub against their own. There is NO exception for fattys. Dude, I don't give a shit if it's glandular, rein your fat in!

Not shown: Male pattern baldness and a ridiculous mustache from the 60's.

After two hours of snoring, sweaty fat hell, I finally reached Spokane (because no airline goes to bumblefuck northern Idaho). Remember that checked luggage I mentioned at the start of this article? That bad boy was back in San Francisco. I waited at the luggage carosel for a while, watching others get their bags. Fewer and fewer bags were left, until the damn thing just stopped rotating. WTF? In their infinite wisdom, United left my bag at SFO. Why? No one knew. There were no notes, no red flags, nothing that said it was blown up as a security precaution... not a damn word. The customer service rep just shrugged and made me fill out a form. Now, I was in Washington preparing to drive to my final destination with the attractive aroma of travel stink and David Crosby funk. Whooohoooo!

This was me, except with a lot more yelling and throwing things.

All in all, I got to podunk northern Idaho without my bag. It's great meeting family of friends' smelling like the inside of a bus station locker. Let's hear it for first impressions! The only thing I could do was hang up my clothes and spray them with some lemon pledge I lifted from a housekeeping cart. I'll take lemon scented wood polish over sweat sock any day.

Also doubles as a breath freshener.

A Half Assed Alcoholic's Guide to Invading Canada

by, Ren

You know where Canada is, right? It's that giant wasteland north of Montana where they try to pass curling off as a sport and ham as some sort of exotic bacon. Yeah, that maple leaf flag place with pictures of the Queen on their money. It also happens to be where Roode is from. Yuppers, Roode is Canuckian. We all knew there was something wrong with him. I mean other than the whole rage-a-holic who sneaks into the women's bathroom categorizing cartoon women he would lay watercolor pipe to thing.

The janitorial version of hockey, I guess. Next, the sawdust on puke competition.

Before some pug nuts accuses me of being anti-Canada and writing hate speech, let me set everyone straight. I like Canada. I've visited often. Some of my best friends hail from the Great White North. In fact, I love how some of Canada's citizens celebrate their patriotism.


I'm an alcohol enthusiast. I dare say I can give Tresckow a run for his money; which is to say drink his Eliza Dushku obsessed ass under the table. Sure, he drinks a bottle of bourbon while watching Hell's Kitchen. That's kid stuff. My people refer to whiskey as "water." You got it, my family is right off the potato boat. My Irish ancestors invented the bar fight, alcohol poisoning, and booze fueled domestic abuse. In short, Momma can drink like a champ. So, why not exercise my drinking muscles once in a while? Hey, I drink responsibly. I always cut myself off when I lose consciousness.

No, this isn't me. I don't drink shitty beer and I'm a fuckload cuter.

Not too long ago, my merry little band decided to go bar hopping. It's the tried and true tradition of crashing a bar, drinking to the point of arguing with one of the bar stools, then moving on to the next pub before the cops arrive. It's never a good idea to wing your itinerary. To hedge your bets, you really should plot out your drunken flight path with Google maps. It just helps avoid the inevitable geographical catastrophe. What about your cell phone's GPS? Forget it. You can barely dial drunk, let alone operate any application that requires more than just yelling at the phone.

And this is just using the key word "bars."

Fridays bring out the worst in drunks. Especially if that drunk is a booze swilling, obscenity spouting, potato farming Mick. Hey, I can say that shit. I'm Irish. Not just Irish, but NORTHERN Irish. It's not a racial slur if you're talking about your own people. Your own smashed, whiskey gulping, fighting mad drunk people. Éirinn go Brách! Póg mo thóin!

We're not exactly in the cradle of civilization over here. It's an arctic tundra during the fall, winter, and spring and a sadistic Easy Bake Oven in the summer. As with most of this part of the country, civilization is completely spread out. If what you want isn't located in the town you're in, you're pretty much shit out of luck. You're going to have to sit there and live without a Snuggie. If you can call that living. Or, you can suck it up and drive the two hours to the next town with a fully operational Bed Bath and Beyond.

Yes, I know this is just a backwards, terry cloth version of a Jedi's robe
and it just might be the most retarded "As Seen On TV" product known to man.
Don't ask a girl to explain. I just fucking want one!

A good, hardcore pub crawl in this area is only for the dedicated. I can completely use up all the bars worth going to in one city with ease. It'll take your professional bar hopper no time to vanquish the worthwhile watering holes. Where do you go from there? You take your wasted show on the road. That's precisely what we did.

Take that shit on the road!

Someone had the brilliant idea to just "head north." Why not? Like I said, everything in this God forsaken state is a hundred miles away from everything else. Bars (the acceptable ones, anyway) tend to cluster in decent sized towns and cities. I've learned to keep the fuck out of back road shit holes with a flickering sign that simply reads "BAR." I'm way too girlie, have too many teeth, and 200 pounds too light for syphilis rampant road houses.

Sorry, dude. Still no deal.

The only one of us not investing in a future case of Sclerosis of the Liver was the designated driver. That poor son-of-a-bitch had to drive our belligerent alcohol soaked asses from bar to bar. Before you start feeling too sorry for him, take this into consideration: 1) He's one of those Canadian people, 2) he got to watch a couple of the girls play a drunken game of "make out and giggle," and 3) I'm pretty sure I let him cop a feel a few times. That last part is a little hazy.

Bar by bar we worked our way North, hitting a string of towns and the only "city" in that area, Great Falls. Being nice and liquored up, it was decided that the trek North shall continue! Hey, our DD knows a pretty awesome bar a little further North. We totally should go! Fuck yeah! NORTH! BAR! GO!

Point that arrow thingy to N and move out!

This is when it all gets a little muddy. I remember a strip club that had some pretty rock'n wings. I want to say one of the girls ended up dry humping the stripper pole on stage (Jesus, I hope it wasn't me). Someone brought a monkey, because the monkey knocked over the drink cart. What I clearly remember is our DD getting obliterated on shots of grain and Captain Morgan. Alright, whatever. So we'll have to find a place to crash and sleep it off. After kindly turning down an offer for shelter from a nice man in a trench coat and sunglasses, we all decided to get a hotel room, collapse, and each engage in our own, personal vomiting ritual.

Post a sign all you want, society. I'm still going to do the technicolor yawn in your bushes.

As pleasant as it may be to pack 5 people who smell like stale alcohol, vomit, and vanilla cupcakes (that one has me baffled), the first thing you want to do when you rejoin the world of the living is get the holy fuck out of that room and get some fresh air. Okay, I did take a few quick seconds to take a a couple cell pics of the rest of my party in strange, passed out positions. What kind of friend would I be if I didn't?

Having no recollection of where we were, what hotel we were in, or why my underwear was now blue instead of green (I could have sworn I put on green undies before this whole thing began), I stumbled out of the building. Thank God. Finally, somewhere that doesn't smell like a bus station in Belfast. Sun? WTF? Oh yea, I have a hangover. I scanned the area looking for someplace to get a few dozen cups of black coffee and more whiskey (hair of the dog and all). My poor eyes were just slits. They hated the sun too.

The sun is such a dick when you have a soul crushing hangover.

I started walking around looking for a combination Starbucks-liquor store. Hey. There sure are a lot of cars with Canadian license plates. Damn Canucks, always coming to this state, eating our food, breathing our air... Damn, Alberta? Most of the tags were from Alberta. What, is there some sort of Albertian invasion of Montana? Dude, take it.

I noticed something else that seemed strange to me. The speed limits in this town are absurdly high.

Holy vehicular homicide, Batman!

Oh, wait. The sign continues. Hmm, there is more writing under the numbers. Shit, I hate lowering my head. My eyeballs hurt. My neck hurts. If it was important it would be in my line of sight. Holding my chin with my hand, I slowly lower my entire head, using the least amount of neck power possible. I have no doubt that I looked like a little blonde mental case. This shit better be worth it.


KM/H? Canadian car tags? Alberta? The smell of cooked ham on pizza? Did I hear someone say "Aboot?" Aboot? Eh? Alright, let me do the math. Ugh, my head. No. Concentrate. Whose thong is this in my pocket? STOP! THINK. KM/H. Canadian tags. "Aboot." This all sounds familiar. God, I want a slice of pizza. Maybe one with Canadian bac..... FUCK! It can't be! How the shit did this happen.

I thought the US flag looked strange. It's all maple leafy...

We went North, alright. The damn hoser DD did know of a kick ass place to party. He just left out the part about crossing international borders. Canada? The four of us from a country that's had a flag for more then 50 years were a might concerned. Not so much about Canada; I mean who's concerned about Canada? It was more about re-entering the United States and dealing with border security, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and the fun time guys in Homeland Security. Did I mention none of us had our passports? I should have mentioned that none of us had our passports. Who the fuck takes their passport along when going on a bar crawl? Apparently, I should have. Come on. We managed to get into Canada without papers. Five sloppy drunks drove over the border without so much of a "Hey there,hi there, ho there, Eh." How hard will it be to slip back over?

shit.

Canada is the roach motel of North American countries. I'm not comparing the nation to a poisonous roach infested trap, so don't get your panties in a bunch, Canada. It's more like Americans can enter, but they can't leave sort of thing. Obviously, no one gives a flying fuck who enters Canada. But, when you want to turn around and drive the other way, there's a problem. You see, the US is all bent out of shape about terrorism and terrorists sneaking past the border from Canada and doing harm unto us. Hey, that's a legitimate concern. The problem is that its nye im-fucking-possible to secure a 3,142 mile long border. In the good old days, if you lived close enough, you could pop into Canada and back, no questions asked. Today, fuck you! You're a terrorist until we can prove otherwise. I sure as shit fit the profile being 5' 2" 100 pounds, pale, and blonde. I'm part of the little known Al Qaeda cell made up completely of angry Mick leftovers from the PIRA (IRA to you slaves of movie pop culture).

But, when the Irish found out that whiskey and Guinness were forbidden by religious law, they promptly gave everyone the finger and went to the nearest pub.

After the last of us came to, we decided to make a break for it. Our Canadian DD couldn't remember exactly how we came in. It seemed like every secondary road was blocked from the Alberta side. Awesome! They're just waving people through! We might just pull this off!

Fuck.

Before I knew it, a couple of officers from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police knocked on our window. Our ship was sunk. We were caught. Maybe it was because the car reeked of vomit and Irish Car Bombs. Maybe it was because I said the phrase "Irish Car Bombs." Whatever it was, the Horsemen nabbed us and impounded the car. Why? Fucking racial profiling, man!
Once again, four out of the five of our little posse came from the States. Out of that four, exactly ZERO could provide any sort of paper work to the RCMP, let alone US border patrol. Our state drivers licenses were useless. My attempt to seduce my way out of Canadian custody fell flat. Great. Now I have self esteem issues to boot. Fucking Mounties.

For the record, we were "detained" not arrested. There's a mile of difference. Being arrested involves jail and a cavity search. Being detained entails a lot of retarded questioning, bad coffee, and constantly reaffirming that when you said "Irish Car Bomb" you meant the damn drink.

Don't you Sasquatches mix drinks?

It was a chicken and the egg routine. In order to get past the border, we needed our passports. In order to get our passports, we needed to get past the border. Our options were:

1. Have someone mail them to us while we wait in Calgary, in custody.
2. Get shipped to the US Embassy in Ottawa.
3. Have someone drive to the border checkpoint and bring them to us.
4. Undertake a Steve McQueen type "Great Escape."

We didn't have enough shovels or Charles Bronson to complete number 4. Number 1 and 2 would just take us deeper into Canada; the OPPOSITE direction we needed to go. Not to mention staying longer than humanly possible. Number 3 seemed the most possible. I knew precisely who to recruit. My big brother! That's it! He lives where this whole carnival of dipshittery began. That was only a mere... 1... 2... 4... 6 hours away! That's practically down the road.

After some convincing, pleading, and threatening to tell everyone that he secretly watches iCarly when no one's around (oops), he reluctantly agreed. It took him over an hour to locate and secure all four of the needed passports. A friend of his tagged along for the ride to watch the hilarity ensue. Joke's on that asshole. He doesn't have a passport, so the border patrol made him wait on the US side while my brother drove through. HA!

I was free! Even though, I'm damn sure I was entered in some sort of Albertian-Canadian-Canuckian watch list.

I'm sorry, Ms. Ren. You appear to be a person of interest...

I suppose I should be grateful that it was the RCMP that kicked up a fuss and not Homeland Security. I'm not sure I could take a stint in Gitmo. I guess I should be grateful that my brother made a 12 hour round trip to bail his little sister out of an international bind. But, dude, some of those strippers at the club were HOT!