I get to LAX (never liked that name) and the cab pulls up to the terminal (never liked that word). I get out, walk in the door and I hear “Hold it right there!” (Never liked that phrase). Two airport security guards come running over with their guns drawn (never liked those things).
“What? What did I do? Do I look like a terrorist? Am I carrying a bomb? Do I have a concealed weapon? Do I have 40 sticks of dynamite wrapped around my torso and a detonator in my hand?” I ask politely. Okay maybe I was a little defensive. I hear one of them say to the other,
“False alarm on the burning fuse, my bad.” Then he says to me,
“There’s no smoking in the airport, sir.”
“Well that’s good, that means the place probably isn’t on fire.” I quip.
“Your cigarette, put it out.” So I comply, and they say,
“Step this way sir.” They cuff my hands behind my back and we go into a little room and the one says to me,
“Alright, strip!”
“C'mon, I just met you guys.”
“Now listen you homo pervert, none of your funny business or we'll do a full body cavity search.”
“And you're calling me a pervert?”
After about ten minutes of this, they let me go and now I’m late, I’m running full throttle down this long corridor and this gray-haired old biddy says to me,
“Late for your flight?”
“No, I’m practicing for the Olympics.”
“Special Olympics? You people are so brave. I try to stay in shape too.”
I look at her all hunched over sagging down to her knees and I say,
“Keep trying, it’s all you can do.”
“Young man, I’ll have you know, I’m 94 years old.”
Wait a minute, I’m running as fast as I can and a 94 year old woman is right alongside me! Maybe I do need to start working out. Then I see the handrail and I realize it’s a moving walkway. No wonder that old battle-ax was keeping up with me. Then I look down and realize I’m on the moving walkway. We come to the end of the corridor and I step off. I feel like a woolly mammoth walking through the LaBrea tar pits, I’m struggling with every step and barely moving.
Then I see they have these new motorized wheelchairs in the airport so I get on one and I’m cruising along trying to hold on to my carry on bag and take my coat off because by now, I’m sweating like a... like a...what’s that animal the sweats a lot? Anyway, I can’t get my jacket off and I’m all twisted with my arm stuck in the sleeve and one hand poking through the neck. I’m making sweating noises and grunting profusely. My zipper is stuck and I only have one semi-free hand so I’m pulling on my jacket with my teeth and drooling all over myself. My glasses are falling off, my hand slips off the zipper and I punch myself in the nose. So now, I’m bleeding from the nose too.
The whole time I’m smelling pee and I realize, whoever had the wheelchair last, left a puddle in the seat. So I let out a cry of disgust,
“AAAAAAARGHH!!!”
I look up and the whole airport is staring at me like I’m some kind of spastic crippled quadrapalegic leper. People are covering their children’s eyes with horrified expressions. One brave man comes over and announces to everyone,
“What’s wrong with you people? Can’t you see this poor creature needs help?”
(Creature?) He stuffs a twenty dollar bill in the cup holder of my wheelchair and uses a napkin to help me with my jacket. But I suddenly realize, if he sees my arm is normal, he’ll take back the twenty and I’ll look like an idiot with a bloody nose who peed on himself. So I said, “F-f-fank yoo fuh hepping me mithtuh, ah okeh n-now.” I’m sitting there covered in blood, sweat and pee, acting like a retard. I can’t let everyone know I’m perfectly normal, they'll think I'm a retard. Plus, my cup holder was filling up with bills.
I got to sit in first class and they brought me anything I grunted for. I got out of the plane before everyone else and was escorted to a handi-quipped shuttle with $400 in my cup holder! Since that day, two weeks ago, I’ve been averaging four to six hundred a day just to grunt and pee on myself.
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by numbsain
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