Monday, August 29, 2011
LUV, deux.
Since that last post was so long, I decided to give the second story it’s own little spot. Once again, on Southwest. This time with Paula Deen’s less successful sister as one of our flight attendants. GAWD, that molasses voice over the loudspeaker! I just wanted to slather myself in butter and beat somebody to death with some extra-crispy bacon. Yawwwl.
But it wasn’t her voice, as much as the one thing she did that just chaps my ass beyond all recognition (digression: can you chap an ass in assless chaps?). The lovely dumbass sitting in the bulkhead committed her first offense by putting her back further down the aisle, the backtracking to get the bulkhead seat.
Great. Now when the door opens, we’ll have to wait for Miss Einstein to block the aisle and fight the departing hoard like a horny Alaskan salmon to retrieve her bag. Of course, she was also bright enough to think she could put all of her personal belongings on the floor at her feet, an act that pretty much anyone who has ever even SEEN an airplane, knows is a no-no.
But L’il Deen was having NONE of it.
“Yew cain’t put yer bag there, hun. It’s gunna hafta go in tha overhead bee-uhn.”
When the woman looked at her quizzically, L’il punted. “Sorry. It’s not MY rule.”
Yes, you sorry sack of shit. It is absolutely YOUR rule. YOU are the airline. YOU (and all the other flight attendants in the world) make damn sure we all understand that you are NOT a sky hostess, but an important piece of the safety puzzle. YOU ARE responsible for maintaining a certain safety level in the cabin, and this exact issue is one of the primary safety precautions for which you are responsible.
Yes, I know that it’s waaaaay more important to be liked by a passenger, but come on. Own it. It’s your job. And your job means you support and enforce the rules, not undercut them with your own fear of being disliked.
I see this particular trait more and more across our great land. This unwillingness to accept responsibility, even when some unpleasantness ensues.
“It’s not MY fault!”
Yeah. It is. So very many things that are wrong with our country right now are your fault.
Of course, I had to walk right past her on my eager debarkation. I cringed as she said, “bah bye! Thank yewwww!”
Well, at least she got the “ewww” part right.
After the LUV is Gone
Air travel is always a great provider of stupid people in action. Lately, I have had the unfortunate occurrence of flying Southwest—the LUV airline—a couple of times. In general, I’m a big snobby queen about air travel. Even though I spend the vast majority of my time in coach, I prefer airlines where there is at least a possibility I could get upgraded and fly with what is usually a bunch of overweight traveling salesmen logging their 8 millionth mile of the year.
And that is decidedly NOT the Southwest model. Southwest is like Yokel Air now. Amateur travelers and Tea Party devotees, with a dash of Bumpkin Businessman for spice.
Back in the old days, Southwest was just easy and fun. It was no fuss, you jumped on, you jumped off and the cute young flight attendants were hired as much for their senses of humor as they were for their ability to actually attend.
Then apparently the hiring department of Southwest was taken over by the cast of Hee Haw. Jesus H. Christ, could they BE more cornpone. The made up songs, the banjo accents—I’m surprised they don’t sell tooth black out, fake freckles and pieces of straw in the company store.
But all of that pales in comparison to the surliness I experienced during a recent boarding.
The Beloved and I were flying back from a crazy weekend in LA (where we were entertained by a couple of Top Chefs, a Real Housewife, some real chefs and, of course, dear friends. When I printed out our boarding passes, his was A59. Not great, but not horrible. I printed mine out immediately after and it was A6. Suh-weet! I wasn’t sure how I had scored such a great boarding number, but figured it had something to do with the fact I had flown down at a different time, and perhaps my fare category was different.
As I’m standing in line, I notice another passenger has a boarding card for A6. Hmmm. As I hand my boarding pass to the gate agent and begin to head into the jetway, I notice that my card doesn’t ping it’s approval. Of course, I should have kept walking, but I turned to see what the problem was. The gate agent was standing there with a sullen look on her face.
“Is there a problem?” WHY? Why did I ask? Just get on the damn plane.
“Um … yeah. You’re not A6, you’re A60.” This made perfect sense, given that my Beloved’s number was 59. But that wasn’t what my card SAID.
“But it says A6.”
She pointed to a small number 60 in the lower corner of the boarding pass, then piled on, adding, “And it doesn’t say “Business Select.”
And it doesn’t say you have to be such a hateful cow, either. She sent me back to slot 60.
From my perspective—the perspective of the CUSTOMER—it shouldn’t be about what my fucking ticket DOESN’T say. It should be about what it does say. It wasn’t like the printer left off a zero. It was very clear that I had been assigned that number. And I’m sure I could have fought it, but it was late and I was tired and waiting in line with my Beloved is really a lovely way to spend time, so I didn’t protest.
My ticket also didn’t say that I wanted to be seated across from an absolutely horrible screaming child, spoiled rotten beyond belief, with a couple of ineffectual, milquetoast parents who mistook placation for punishment.
But that’s what I wound up with. And I was feeling the H8.
And that is decidedly NOT the Southwest model. Southwest is like Yokel Air now. Amateur travelers and Tea Party devotees, with a dash of Bumpkin Businessman for spice.
Back in the old days, Southwest was just easy and fun. It was no fuss, you jumped on, you jumped off and the cute young flight attendants were hired as much for their senses of humor as they were for their ability to actually attend.
Then apparently the hiring department of Southwest was taken over by the cast of Hee Haw. Jesus H. Christ, could they BE more cornpone. The made up songs, the banjo accents—I’m surprised they don’t sell tooth black out, fake freckles and pieces of straw in the company store.
But all of that pales in comparison to the surliness I experienced during a recent boarding.
The Beloved and I were flying back from a crazy weekend in LA (where we were entertained by a couple of Top Chefs, a Real Housewife, some real chefs and, of course, dear friends. When I printed out our boarding passes, his was A59. Not great, but not horrible. I printed mine out immediately after and it was A6. Suh-weet! I wasn’t sure how I had scored such a great boarding number, but figured it had something to do with the fact I had flown down at a different time, and perhaps my fare category was different.
As I’m standing in line, I notice another passenger has a boarding card for A6. Hmmm. As I hand my boarding pass to the gate agent and begin to head into the jetway, I notice that my card doesn’t ping it’s approval. Of course, I should have kept walking, but I turned to see what the problem was. The gate agent was standing there with a sullen look on her face.
“Is there a problem?” WHY? Why did I ask? Just get on the damn plane.
“Um … yeah. You’re not A6, you’re A60.” This made perfect sense, given that my Beloved’s number was 59. But that wasn’t what my card SAID.
“But it says A6.”
She pointed to a small number 60 in the lower corner of the boarding pass, then piled on, adding, “And it doesn’t say “Business Select.”
And it doesn’t say you have to be such a hateful cow, either. She sent me back to slot 60.
From my perspective—the perspective of the CUSTOMER—it shouldn’t be about what my fucking ticket DOESN’T say. It should be about what it does say. It wasn’t like the printer left off a zero. It was very clear that I had been assigned that number. And I’m sure I could have fought it, but it was late and I was tired and waiting in line with my Beloved is really a lovely way to spend time, so I didn’t protest.
My ticket also didn’t say that I wanted to be seated across from an absolutely horrible screaming child, spoiled rotten beyond belief, with a couple of ineffectual, milquetoast parents who mistook placation for punishment.
But that’s what I wound up with. And I was feeling the H8.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Who Likes White People?!
One of the reasons I was really wanting to get back to this blog was Cahngresswoman Michele Bachmann. You know, the utterly batshit crazy representative from Minnesota? Yeah, her.
(complete and utter digression, but whomever in the world came up with the nickname “Lady Bird” for Marcus Bachman, I will BLOW you, anytime, anyplace. Genius! Absolute perfection!)
So Mrs. Bachman gave a speech this weekend. And guess what her opening line was?
“Who likes white people?” (while raising her own damn hand).
I am NOT FUCKING KIDDING YOU.
Now, to be “fair and balanced” she was apparently following a band called the White People Soul Band
She continues with:
“I am Michelle Bachman and I am a member of Congress and I’m running for the Presidency of the United States…But I am here to talk tonight about the Creator of the Universe, our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.” Whattywhafuckityfuck? No offense to my Jesusian friends, but I’m pret-tee sure that nobody EVER claimed Jesus was the Creator of the Universe. I’m pretty sure his dad gets the credit. God must feel like Robert Downey. Or Efrem Zimbalist (yeah, I dug back that far!) Or Thurston Howell, Jr.
Now, I am well aware that Mrs. Bachmann has a loose way with the facts, but isn’t she kinda running on the whole Christian platform? Isn’t she a certified Dominionist? So, is she just incredibly stupid or just incredibly careless?
Either way, I’m sure as hell not thinking those are very presidential traits. Of course, I would lit-rally move away if the "majority" of people in this country thought Mrs. Bachmann was more qualified, and had better leadership potential, than our sitting president.
Of course, I’d have to change the name of the blog to L’Attack of Le Stupid People. And no one wants that.
(complete and utter digression, but whomever in the world came up with the nickname “Lady Bird” for Marcus Bachman, I will BLOW you, anytime, anyplace. Genius! Absolute perfection!)
So Mrs. Bachman gave a speech this weekend. And guess what her opening line was?
“Who likes white people?” (while raising her own damn hand).
I am NOT FUCKING KIDDING YOU.
Now, to be “fair and balanced” she was apparently following a band called the White People Soul Band
She continues with:
“I am Michelle Bachman and I am a member of Congress and I’m running for the Presidency of the United States…But I am here to talk tonight about the Creator of the Universe, our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.” Whattywhafuckityfuck? No offense to my Jesusian friends, but I’m pret-tee sure that nobody EVER claimed Jesus was the Creator of the Universe. I’m pretty sure his dad gets the credit. God must feel like Robert Downey. Or Efrem Zimbalist (yeah, I dug back that far!) Or Thurston Howell, Jr.
Now, I am well aware that Mrs. Bachmann has a loose way with the facts, but isn’t she kinda running on the whole Christian platform? Isn’t she a certified Dominionist? So, is she just incredibly stupid or just incredibly careless?
Either way, I’m sure as hell not thinking those are very presidential traits. Of course, I would lit-rally move away if the "majority" of people in this country thought Mrs. Bachmann was more qualified, and had better leadership potential, than our sitting president.
Of course, I’d have to change the name of the blog to L’Attack of Le Stupid People. And no one wants that.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
The Haves vs. The Have Nots
A few weeks ago, I had to make a trip to Los Angeles for a charity event one of my dearest, dearests was chairing. It was a kinda swanky event—an afternoon garden party at one of those big old movie star casas. Being the gigantic queen that I am, I decided that I couldn’t just drive up to the valet parker in ANY OLD CAR. No, no. Miss thing needed a luxury rental.
Upon arriving at the airport, I saw my “luxury” ride awaiting. A champagne colored Lincoln MKZ. Mary Sweet Mother of Jesus. What an ugly piece of grandmother shit. I thought for a moment about asking to swap, but then just went with it.
The interior was all burled, blonde wood and soft, buttercream leather. The car was essentially a Taurus playing dress up. And it was obviously designed for the blue-haired female population. I thought, “okay, I’m not THAT big a queen,” but accepted my fate and figured that I would probably still get some valet attitude.
The car was pretty tricked out, with gadgets and screens that no senior citizen would ever be able to navigate (yeah, I’m a hater. So what? I’ll be an AARP card-carrying senior before you know it. So I’m getting my licks in while I can.)
One feature I found particularly odd was an audible beep beep beep whenever the MKZ got too close to another car. This was usually in effect during parking maneuvers, but did sound off on other occasions.
For instance, when the homeless woman who was panhandling on the street got too close to my car. I almost laughed my ass off. The fucking alert went off. Cuz honey, nothing says luxury like protecting the occupants from the “undesirables.” The HORROR! Shudder to think.
Oh, and by the way… I almost forgot to mention—there was no valet parking at the event.
Serves me right.
Upon arriving at the airport, I saw my “luxury” ride awaiting. A champagne colored Lincoln MKZ. Mary Sweet Mother of Jesus. What an ugly piece of grandmother shit. I thought for a moment about asking to swap, but then just went with it.
The interior was all burled, blonde wood and soft, buttercream leather. The car was essentially a Taurus playing dress up. And it was obviously designed for the blue-haired female population. I thought, “okay, I’m not THAT big a queen,” but accepted my fate and figured that I would probably still get some valet attitude.
The car was pretty tricked out, with gadgets and screens that no senior citizen would ever be able to navigate (yeah, I’m a hater. So what? I’ll be an AARP card-carrying senior before you know it. So I’m getting my licks in while I can.)
One feature I found particularly odd was an audible beep beep beep whenever the MKZ got too close to another car. This was usually in effect during parking maneuvers, but did sound off on other occasions.
For instance, when the homeless woman who was panhandling on the street got too close to my car. I almost laughed my ass off. The fucking alert went off. Cuz honey, nothing says luxury like protecting the occupants from the “undesirables.” The HORROR! Shudder to think.
Oh, and by the way… I almost forgot to mention—there was no valet parking at the event.
Serves me right.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Orange With Envy
I know this is old territory, but doesn't John Boehner have someone to tell him to shut off the mystic tan? Does he not have an iPhone? You can set all kinds of alerts that will prevent you from overdoing it.
Of course, Speaker Boehner obviously has a problem. Tanorexia, while generally the province of bored, underachieving, purge-prone starlets and sorority girls, is a serious issue. And I think Speaker Boehner would make an excellent national spokesperson. If only he could use his bully pulpit for good and not evil. I mean, the motherfucker can cry ON CUE. Can you imagine how powerful his PSA's would be for the cause? Dude, you don't even have to pick a color for the cause-it's already written on your face.
But apparently, he doesn't recognize that he has a problem.
Who knows, maybe he wanted to be a carrot when he grew up. Either that, or there's an Oompah Loompah in the woodpile.
Of course, Speaker Boehner obviously has a problem. Tanorexia, while generally the province of bored, underachieving, purge-prone starlets and sorority girls, is a serious issue. And I think Speaker Boehner would make an excellent national spokesperson. If only he could use his bully pulpit for good and not evil. I mean, the motherfucker can cry ON CUE. Can you imagine how powerful his PSA's would be for the cause? Dude, you don't even have to pick a color for the cause-it's already written on your face.
But apparently, he doesn't recognize that he has a problem.
Who knows, maybe he wanted to be a carrot when he grew up. Either that, or there's an Oompah Loompah in the woodpile.
A Month of Sundays
When I was growing up, my people would use that phrase when they hadn't seen anyone in a while. "Why I haven't seen you in a month of Sundays!" For some reason, maybe because Sundays were "holy," it always seemed like one of those subtle Southern backhanded chides. "Bless her heart" is probably the most common of these, but "a month of Sundays?" It always seemed like an accusation that you hadn't been to church in 30 weeks or so.
Looking back at my last post on this site, I realize it's been 29 Sundays since I added my voice to the din. So let's call it a "Leap Year February of Sundays" or just, "too damn long."
So for anyone who still actually checks this site, let me say "thanks and keep checking back." I can't possibly sit out the craziness and gigantic attacks of the stupid that are going on all around us. Rick Perry actually contending for the Presidency? Stupid. Michelle Bachmann being taken seriously? Too Stupid. Marcus Bachmann? Girrrrl, stupid.
But it's not just the Republicans and Tea Baggers we need to worry about. There are plenty, plenty, plenty of targets out there, just ripening to the point of rupture. And feel like poppin' some balloons. Are you with me?
Looking back at my last post on this site, I realize it's been 29 Sundays since I added my voice to the din. So let's call it a "Leap Year February of Sundays" or just, "too damn long."
So for anyone who still actually checks this site, let me say "thanks and keep checking back." I can't possibly sit out the craziness and gigantic attacks of the stupid that are going on all around us. Rick Perry actually contending for the Presidency? Stupid. Michelle Bachmann being taken seriously? Too Stupid. Marcus Bachmann? Girrrrl, stupid.
But it's not just the Republicans and Tea Baggers we need to worry about. There are plenty, plenty, plenty of targets out there, just ripening to the point of rupture. And feel like poppin' some balloons. Are you with me?
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Whisper to a Scream
Here in NorCal, we have a chain of sub shops called ToGo. Long o’s. I mean, sure you can take them to go, but that’s not how you say it. It’s Toe Go. Anyway . . .
I’m in line at the ToGo yesterday, waiting on my delicious #20 with prov. There’s a line of people waiting, but service is smooth and we’re all in a “kumbaya, gimme my sammy” kinda place. Then this adorable young mother walks in with her two beautiful children (seriously) and walks right around the line to the phone-in order counter.
I gave her a side-eye, just to make sure she wasn’t cutting, but one of the clerks asked if she had a phone order.
“YEAH! IT’S UNDER LESLIE!” she screamed at the clerk. Now the joint was a bit noisy, but, bitch please. The man is two feet away from your face. And I’m 8 inches away from your blow hole.
She continued, “IT WAS TWO SANDWICHES! I ALSO NEED CHIPS AND A DRINK!” She said this last part as she reached around my back to the chip rack.
Lucky me! I get your shriek in stereo now.
Enough was enough. I turned to her, leaned in where she could hear me plainly without shouting, smiled my southern beauty queen smile and said, “Inside voice.”
She looked at me like I had shot her. But she piped down.
Damn, that sandwich was good.
I’m in line at the ToGo yesterday, waiting on my delicious #20 with prov. There’s a line of people waiting, but service is smooth and we’re all in a “kumbaya, gimme my sammy” kinda place. Then this adorable young mother walks in with her two beautiful children (seriously) and walks right around the line to the phone-in order counter.
I gave her a side-eye, just to make sure she wasn’t cutting, but one of the clerks asked if she had a phone order.
“YEAH! IT’S UNDER LESLIE!” she screamed at the clerk. Now the joint was a bit noisy, but, bitch please. The man is two feet away from your face. And I’m 8 inches away from your blow hole.
She continued, “IT WAS TWO SANDWICHES! I ALSO NEED CHIPS AND A DRINK!” She said this last part as she reached around my back to the chip rack.
Lucky me! I get your shriek in stereo now.
Enough was enough. I turned to her, leaned in where she could hear me plainly without shouting, smiled my southern beauty queen smile and said, “Inside voice.”
She looked at me like I had shot her. But she piped down.
Damn, that sandwich was good.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Salty Tears at the Beach
So, after a wild ride of a year, my Beloved surprised me and the now almost 13 year-old offspring with a well-needed trip to Maui (apparently, Paris HIlton was there too, but thankfully there was no sighting). After asking around for all the "must do's" we planted our fat asses firmly in the sand outside our hotel room and never moved unless food or drink was involved. We splurged on those gay little beach chair duos with the pull-up canopy (they called them "cabanas" just to make them even gayer, but darlings, you might want to google "French Riviera" and see what a real cabana is). To complete the visual, wrapped a sarong artfully around my rotundity, perched a large, floppy straw hat on my pate and donned sunglasses large enough to serve dinner on. It was a look that screamed, "yes, I'm famous. And NO, you may not talk to me."
Shortly, a couple in their mid-50's, AND THEIR TEN YEAR-OLD SON (I'm sure offspring seemed like SUCH a good idea in your mid 40's), plopped their assets down on a "cabana" immediately to my right. Now, knowing that a couple of old queens are hardly the ideal playmate for an almost 13 year-old (unless of course, said queens are Catholic priests), I immediately thought young Kieran might like to meet The Offspring. Two only children forging a bond over sandy shorts and ugly sea shells. Ahhh!
The kids dashed off to play in the surf and I went back to eavesdrop--I mean, relaxing. Apparently, Kieran's last name is Bickerson, because SWEET JESUS every word that came out of these people's mouths was cutting. Apparently even a task as menial as brushing sand off of a beach chair was not done properly.
Bitch, bitch, bitch. Bicker, bicker, bicker. I was just about to say, "Excuse me, this is my fucking VACATION. If I wanted to listen to bickering, I would just call up a co-worker." Then a bottle of wine magically appeared. And disappeared. Not the bottle. Just the wine. And the bickering turned into arguing.
What? Time for lunch already? I adjusted my sarong and headed to the bar. After a delicious repast, I returned to the beach. Mr. Bickerson was now nowhere in sight. His stuff was gone, too. All that was left was a sobbing Mrs. Bickerson. Excuse me, a DRUNK-ON-HER-ASS-sobbing Mrs. Bickerson. A drunk-on-her-ass-sobbing Mrs. Bickerson, clutching her 10-year old to her bosom while she sobbed her salty, wine-fueled tears of desperation and, I presume, divorce.
Man, I hope they are putting as much money away for kid therapy as they are for booze. Soon, Mrs. B passed out cold. YAY!!!
Now don't get me wrong. I enjoy a good sideshow as much as the next guy, but seriously. Kieran began frolicking in the waves like he hadn't a care in the world. I could only assume that he was well-practiced in this particular routine. Mrs. B soon awoke from her fitful slumber, stumbled down the beach and fell into the water. I would have laughed if it hadn't been so pathetic. (Okay, I DID laugh, but discreetly.)
Soon, Mrs. B was clutching her child to her heaving chest, adding a little more salt water to what was already an ocean full. And this was the beginning of their two week vacation.
Shortly, a couple in their mid-50's, AND THEIR TEN YEAR-OLD SON (I'm sure offspring seemed like SUCH a good idea in your mid 40's), plopped their assets down on a "cabana" immediately to my right. Now, knowing that a couple of old queens are hardly the ideal playmate for an almost 13 year-old (unless of course, said queens are Catholic priests), I immediately thought young Kieran might like to meet The Offspring. Two only children forging a bond over sandy shorts and ugly sea shells. Ahhh!
The kids dashed off to play in the surf and I went back to eavesdrop--I mean, relaxing. Apparently, Kieran's last name is Bickerson, because SWEET JESUS every word that came out of these people's mouths was cutting. Apparently even a task as menial as brushing sand off of a beach chair was not done properly.
Bitch, bitch, bitch. Bicker, bicker, bicker. I was just about to say, "Excuse me, this is my fucking VACATION. If I wanted to listen to bickering, I would just call up a co-worker." Then a bottle of wine magically appeared. And disappeared. Not the bottle. Just the wine. And the bickering turned into arguing.
What? Time for lunch already? I adjusted my sarong and headed to the bar. After a delicious repast, I returned to the beach. Mr. Bickerson was now nowhere in sight. His stuff was gone, too. All that was left was a sobbing Mrs. Bickerson. Excuse me, a DRUNK-ON-HER-ASS-sobbing Mrs. Bickerson. A drunk-on-her-ass-sobbing Mrs. Bickerson, clutching her 10-year old to her bosom while she sobbed her salty, wine-fueled tears of desperation and, I presume, divorce.
Man, I hope they are putting as much money away for kid therapy as they are for booze. Soon, Mrs. B passed out cold. YAY!!!
Now don't get me wrong. I enjoy a good sideshow as much as the next guy, but seriously. Kieran began frolicking in the waves like he hadn't a care in the world. I could only assume that he was well-practiced in this particular routine. Mrs. B soon awoke from her fitful slumber, stumbled down the beach and fell into the water. I would have laughed if it hadn't been so pathetic. (Okay, I DID laugh, but discreetly.)
Soon, Mrs. B was clutching her child to her heaving chest, adding a little more salt water to what was already an ocean full. And this was the beginning of their two week vacation.
In All Things, Balance
So . . . anybody still out there? Yeah, I know. I suck. The good news is, it was SUCH an amazing and productive 2010 that there simply wasn't a lot of bandwidth for personal projects like this here bloggy thingy. But I missed it oh so much. The bad news? Work is still ginning along at rocket speed (I guess that's really good news, but you know what I mean).
In the spirit of the new year, however, I am resolving to refresh and relaunch AOTSP. However, I am also trying to be a kinder, gentler person, so you can see the inherent conflict I'm facing. Oh, well, if I have to break a resolution . . .
Therefore I am in deep, secret negotiations to do all kinds of fancy thangs here. So stay tuned. If you're there.
Meanwhile, I'm going to start posting again. Starting here! Starting now!
xoxo and Happy New Year,
Seamus O'Pine
In the spirit of the new year, however, I am resolving to refresh and relaunch AOTSP. However, I am also trying to be a kinder, gentler person, so you can see the inherent conflict I'm facing. Oh, well, if I have to break a resolution . . .
Therefore I am in deep, secret negotiations to do all kinds of fancy thangs here. So stay tuned. If you're there.
Meanwhile, I'm going to start posting again. Starting here! Starting now!
xoxo and Happy New Year,
Seamus O'Pine
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