Tuesday, December 27, 2005

There is Never a “Good Reason” to Hit

That’s what I kept telling myself on Christmas Day. It became my mantra.

But before I get into that, let me tell you that my trip to Washington State (I got back to LA on Christmas Day) was fantastic. I got to see both of my parents (which is a feat that sounds less impressive than it is, they’ve been divorced for 27 years and my father lives in West Virginia), I got to see my brother (who also live in WV), I got to see my sister, my brother-in-law, my favorite niece, some of my extended family and finally, I got to meet my little nephew Asher.

Needless to say, my new mantra wasn’t a result of them (oh, and mom, I made it back safely. I just forgot how to pick up a phone. Yes, it actually happened!)

As you already know, kids are the bane of my existence. Let me rephrase that. Parents of bad kids are the bane of my existence. I should clarify again…I hate bad parents.

There are 172 seats on a Boeing 737-900. 156 of those are in coach. So, mathematically, the chances of riding next to screaming child are much lower for poor people. And I am a poor person. Ergo, my odds of being seated next to a bratty kid are mathematically low. But then you must consider that it’s the poor people who are repopulating the earth. And don’t forget to adjust for karma.

Not only did I get seated next to a bothersome baby, I was surrounded by them.

That plane was my Waterloo.

I had a screaming baby behind me (who stopped screaming soon. It was a good baby). Now if that was the worst that fate could do, I would have been pretty happy. But no. Karma brought in the heavy artillery. A family with 4 kids. Two sets of Irish twins. One set under two.

I should have known that this family was going to be trouble from the start. For one, they were late for the plane. Two, they didn’t care what their tickets said, they sat wherever there was empty space (they wanted to be close to each other. The worst families always want to be close to each other. They have to be. It’s a deep need. See, no one else can stand them. They don’t have any friends so…they breed them). And since I had a substantial scowl going full blast from the time that I got on the plane for the sole purpose of having a row completely to myself, I became the hapless neighbor of the Dumbshit Family.

The Dumbshit Family wasn’t intimidated by my twisted visage. The tweens in the seat in front of me were though. I actually found myself wishing I had been friendlier. I could have had 10-year-olds sitting next to me. At least the 10-year-olds were as intelligent as…well, 10-year-olds.

Here’s the thing about the Dumbshit Family. They looked normal. They looked like an average couple with four average kids and one average grandmother. But no. They were evil. They were stupid. They almost got punched…every one of them.

The dad and, what I had thought was a really ugly baby girl (it turned out to be an extremely ugly baby boy) as well as the grandmother sat down next to me. I was annoyed, but fine. I sat next to grandma and she was scared of me so she kept her little distance. The ugly baby eventually calmed down and things were bearable (I spent the vacation with my adorable little nephew, so I was being more patient than normal although, my nephew doesn’t really require a hell of a lot of patience. My sister has two really great kids).

I was getting so comfortable in fact, that I fell asleep. It’s what I woke up to that could have gotten me shot by an air marshal.

It seems that in the three seconds that I was asleep, the ugly baby started to fuss. Daddy felt that it must have had something to do with the seat he was sitting in I guess because he moved to another seat closer to the front of the plane (the poor suckers in that row…). Granny wasn’t going to sit next to me without a bodyguard so she moved back a row to join her two older grandchildren. That left only two members of the family. Dumbshit Mom and a “kid” who I’ll call Limbsy. A toe-headed little thing. The mutant offspring of an elbow and a steel-toed boot. That’s Limbsy. Not as ugly as Ugly Baby, but with a disposition that cleared up any reservations I ever had about trying children for crimes as adults (an issue that this kid would do well to tackle now. Get a jump on it, I say).

The only advantage that I could see to having Limbsy and Ma Dumbshit as neighbors was that they only took up one seat. I was seated next to the window and they could take the isle.

Nope. They sat right next to me. Evidently, the isle seat was to only be used by their huge bag-o-baby-crap. They then proceeded to make me wish that I had walked back to LA. I was kicked. I was elbowed. My tray table was used as a toy (not as much as theirs was. Limbsy was fascinated with the ease at which his own tray table could be used as a percussion instrument). Ma Dumbshit even got in a few good jabs with her hairy elbow. And through it all, Ma Dumbshit ignored me. She knew I was being molested. She just didn’t care. Not an apology. Nothing. Not even an acknowledgement.

And trust me, I did everything short of throwing her child out the window with nothing other than a prayer and a seat cushion (to be used as a floatation device in the event that he land in a mud puddle). I sighed heavily. I slammed my book down in frustration. I glared at them. I mean real glaring. Eye-contact and everything.

Still nothing.

I hate confrontation. I don’t like to complain to people…to their faces anyway. But I had to do something. I was becoming homicidal.

Finally, I said, with every ounce of charm and sweetness I could muster “hey, is there anyone sitting in that seat?” referring to the one next to the isle.

“oh, well…” she knew that I was frustrated with her, “my…uh…my husband…is…uh…sitting there…it’s his seat.”

Well for one. It wasn’t. It was nobody’s seat. But I was going to argue semantics. Plus Pa was sitting about four rows in front of us. The entire plane knew this. He was constantly walking around in the isle even after being told repeatedly to sit down. Plus Ma would shout to him every couple of minutes. (“Don! Don! Do you know where Limbsy’s food is?! Don?! Don. Don. Don! Limbsy needs to eat! His elbows are becoming flaccid and less lethal! Don! Where are the iron filings we usually serve him?! Don?! Don!”)

I say to her,“I was just wondering if maybe you could move over to that one? (the empty one) I’m starting to feel a little claustrophobic.” I wasn’t lying. I was feeling claustrophobic. Limbsy was standing on Ma’s lap and his elbows were moving ever closer, squishing me more and more into the plane’s fuselage. I felt like I was in a retarded James Bond fick.

At this point Ma Dumbshit became surprisingly put out.

“Oh, well…” She seethed with as much sarcasm as her little brain could produce “I wouldn’t want you to get claustrophobic.”

You would have thought that I had asked her to move to Alaska. I hadn’t…yet. I just wanted her to move one fucking seat to her left. She did it. She slammed her bag-o-crap around. She sighed. She fussed. She even explained to her half-wit child why she was moving “Come on Limbsy, we’re making HIM claustrophobic.”

I just smiled and thanked her. What a bitch. But my troubles were over, right?


When the plane finally landed I got up to get my stuff. She wouldn’t let me out of the row. She just had to get off first. Her and her entire retarded family. Fine. Whatever.

I finally get my crap and follow the Dumbshit clan to the exit. As soon as we get to the front of the plane, she asks to speak with the pilot. I was sure that it was about me. It wasn’t. It was one of her stupid kids’ birthday. And we couldn’t get past them. So for the next 5 minutes the rest of Alaska Airlines flight 902 had to wait for some brainless kid to get congratulated for being born.

If only the pilot had known.

If only he had known that this kid’s birth was just the beginning of a string of tragedies that he would call his life.

After that, it took me 10 minutes to get up the jetway.

Limbsy just had to walk.

There is never a “good reason” to hit. There is never a “good reason” to hit. There is never a “good reason” to hit...

Fun Fact: Evidently, I have a tattoo on my forehead that reads “come to me, I’m the guy you want to talk to.”

But only stupid people can read it. Nobody cool. Nobody that matters. Just stupid people. I'm a fucktard magnet.

I don't know how to feel about that.

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