I spend entirely too much time in airports and on airplanes since I took on my new job in February.  I honestly don’t know how George Clooney’s character did it in that movie.  I’m at the point where if I actually earned one of those cards that Clooney’s character coveted and was presented the card by a pilot, I’d probably quote Comic Book Guy: “Ohh, I’ve wasted my life.”

Week in, week out, it’s the same fucking routine.  Some black car shows up to take me to the airport (side bar: it used to always be a driver of Middle Eastern descent, now it’s almost exclusively a driver of Oriental descent, what’s up with that?  I think the Chinese population are trying to muscle out the car service operation the way they’ve muscled out the Italians out of Little Italy).

I walk into the same fucking terminals; the same fucking line; the same fucking blue-shirted TSA robot who scribbles on my ticket after I show him my driver’s license; the same line with the same retards who walk through the metal detector with pockets full of keys, machetes, toaster ovens, flux capacitors, you fucking name it; the same fucking seats at the gate filled with the same flying imbeciles.

Shit, I have wasted my life.

Well, maybe not all is lost.  Because if nothing else, my life spent flying has taught me the following:

The single-most pointless argument on God’s green earth is that between people in line at the airport arguing and complaining about how long the fucking lines are at the airport.  It’s an airport, it’s got lines – lots of ‘em – and it’s filled with assholes just like you trying to get to the other side of those x-ray machines.  This is not a new phenomenon.  Whinging about it will not make the line move one second faster or one inch forward.  Each of you fuckwits trying to one-up each other with “waiting-in-line” horror stories (“You only waited for 2 hours?  I once waited three weeks to get on a flight!”) will not hasten your meeting with the blue-shirted robot with the ultraviolet flash light demanding to see your ID.  Rush hour rules apply: you get a gajillion people first thing in the morning and in the evening.  This is a given fact, it’s a known fact, it’s nothing new.  So please, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE shut the fuck up.

The knife must be made of plastic, otherwise the terrorists win.  What was the fucking executive debate that took place in which these fuckwits decided that forks and spoons were OK if they were made of metal, but the knife – the fucking, fearsome, murderous knife!! – had to be made of plastic?  Now that the knife is made of plastic, I feel so much safer.  Because there’s just no way the metal fork can do any damage to me whatsoever.  Nope, not at all.  I’m impervious to metal forks.  I think the most aggravating thing is the fact that some shithead got paid a decent chunk of money to make that decision.  Whomever that person is, I want to shake his/her hand for landing such a gig.  Then I want to stab the shithead in the groin with a plastic knife.

Water is the most valuable commodity between the x-ray machine and your gate.  Before the x-ray machine, it’s security poison.  It must be disposed off, destroyed, every last drop wiped from existence.  “Holy fuck, it’s WATER!!!”  Then you pass through those magic x-ray gates, walk 10 feet, there are bottles and bottles and bottles of water.  For 5 bucks an ounce or something.  “Bottle of water, please.”  “That’s $8.12, thank you.”  Suddenly, it’s no longer poison.  It’s no longer the vilest substance on earth.  Between the gates, this water is magically becomes more precious than oil.  I once traded a bottle of Evian for a slightly used iPad.

Departure times are merely flimsy suggestions that the airlines use to fill up the lists on the LCD screens at the airport.  They’re meaningless.  They’re just random numbers typed in by some bored monkey in the basement that’s probably being fed the same $15 shitdog you paid for in the food court near your gate.  So far, this year, I’ve probably taken about 50 flights – of the lot, I think approximately 3 have left sometime in the vicinitiy of “on time”.  Everything else has had a minimum – minimum! – 1 hour delay.  On one flight, I was looking at the departure screen like the retard that I am, and watched the departure time for my flight change 3 times in 20 seconds.  These fucking assholes have no idea when your flight leaves. They just throw a time out there, hope some people show up, and when they see that everyone’s just on the verge of becoming violent, they hurry you onto the plane.  And then you sit there and wait.  And wait some more.  Fuck you, airlines, fuck you so much.

My wardrobe is now dictated by the airport.  It’s fucking ridiculous, but I realized this the other day while going through the security check in Boston.  I use my workbag because it has a velcro flap that allows me to retrieve my laptop easily.  It has a side pocket that’s just large enough for fitting my cash, wallet, and cell phone, which I have to remove before going through the metal detector.  I only wear Chelsea boots because they’re the easiest things to slip on and off when I go through security.  The other day, I ordered some new shirts, and they came with brass collar stays, which are a rather nice touch.  But my immediate thought was, “Fuck, I’ll bet these are going to set off the metal detector at the airport.”  What.  The fuck.