Thirty-five thousand feet above the United States of America, I try to imagine the countryside as the county sex offender map, clusters of red dots that pock the land and dissipate its joy. Glowing orbs of depravity.
In the aircraft itself, there is the usual: forced smiles, warm drinks, and Jennifer Aniston’s fake boobs. The video screens that drop from the ceiling show advertising disguised as entertainment.
The plane bounces and dips in the choppy air, and I recall a feature on Channel 8 news in San Diego
that the station titled TURBULANCE. Just like that.
A couple goes for it in the bathroom, and I wonder in what context – and to whom – they’ll tell the story. Mom, Dad, you’re not going to believe it. George and I are members of the Mile High Club.
If an entire World Series game takes places while you are airborne, was the game really played?
The president of the United States of America is in the magazines, his head uncannily resembling a balloon. Slumped over the lectern, his oration looks constipated. He seems to be imploring.
Coalition building, they might call it.
The descent into the land of the pedophiles and armed psychotics is smooth, and the weather in Denver is 28 degrees. Oatmeal people wait outside the security checkpoints, forbidden to be at the gates because of the 19 Muslim men who flew the airliners into the World Trade Center, The Pentagon and the field in Pennsylvania.
That was a nice job on their part, the Muslim men, making flying more difficult for everyone the world ‘round. And it’s too bad, because flying was darn convenient.
Still is, actually, despite the best efforts of the Muslim men.