Air Travel: Dante's Secret 10th ring of Hell

Posted from Terminal C, Newark Int'l: Newark, NJ

Seeing as commentating on flying is one of the most abused, hackneyed subjects of the lowest comic minds, I feel I must conribute.

I have grown a keen hate for airports. I assumed this would be slightly obvious given the title of this posting, but just to reiterate for the 'slow' among us: I hate airports.

Especially ones in New Jersey.

The state's basically one giant landfill with an airstrip, and the smell doesn't stop at the airport doors, buddy. Why did Continental decide this place should be a hub? Someone in the board room was drunk for this one. One other thing I don't quite realize is why I'm being routed THROUGH New Jersey to go to Vegas. From Indianapolis. My travel time goes from 4:45 flight time direct, to 15 hours with the layover. I mean, it was marginally cheaper than the other flights, but what about this scenario doesn't make sense? The direct flights from IND->LAS were far from booked, yet as some sort of cosmic punishment for wanting to save a buck, I'm routed through satan's anus, and I get to stay there for three hours. My only consolation is that I got the stewardess on the way out here to empathize and pour me an unending glass of Chivas. That ALMOST makes up for it... but it doesn't.

But that's the airport. Now comes the fun part.

Indianapolis to Newark, NJ. 11:00am

I find that my impression of the flight is primarily defined by the person next to whom I am sitting. Anorexic Ukrainian gymnast who sleeps the entire time and folds into a ball that takes up 3/4in^3 of space? Excellent. Lumbering, overweight assmonkey that reeks of Dr.Scholl's and beef tips? No thank you. Guess who I get to sit next to? Not only does Chuck the Travelling PVC Salesman take up more than his fair share of shoulder and hip room, but he crosses his arms and expands himself exponentially. Thanks, Chuck. To add insult to chiropractic injury, he made sure he showed up just as they were closing the jetway door. You know what I'm talking about; You're sitting in the aisle seat with some perfectly chatty nymph stationed at the window, and no one between you. You casually joke about how you seem to have "lucked out" since no one is sitting between you. She giggles. You beam.

Then the plane lurches to the left like a semi's been dropped in the cockpit. Chuck. He galumphs on with his way-too-big carry-on, his "personal item" (usually a bag of garlic Cheetos), and his short-sleeved collared shirt with pit stains the size of Honduras. He pours himself down the aisle, constantly looking from his ticket stub to the seat markings as he smacks unsuspecting passangers with not only his carry-on, but his odor. Why are you looking at that ticket, Chuck? We ALL know where you're headed-- come on down! Sit between me and Nadia, please. Hope, it would seem, is officially dashed.

I attempted to carry on your conversation with Nadia, but Chuck's rotund figure keept me from even being able to see if she was still alive- it was tantamount to conversing with someone on the other side of a 400lb bubble of lard. Chuck, you suck. Dirty fu-- nevermind.

On a more humorous note, I just asked the waitress here (some shit-hole in the Newark airport) if their bar had WiFi.

"I'll ask the bartender, but I think we only carry Budweiser products"

No shit.