Fluffer

Well….looks like my dear friend, Schmen (refer to: First Class or Class Ass), has been outdone. Oddly, enough…..by the cleaning crew. Not just any cleaning crew. Not the ones that you normally see circling the door of the jet bridge waiting for the plane to land so they can knock you over to spray their room “deodorizer” in your face and push you back in your seat as if their job was with the national center of disease control and that flight had been red flagged. Not the ones that are short enough to play leap frog with. Not the ones that actually look like they wash their hair less than people that claim to be from Europe, as if that was some personal hygiene trump card. Not that ones that inspire high school line backers to work out more. We’re talking tall, blonde Polish chicas bonitas. F*bombs have nothing on them…well, except for myself and the crowd I go out to ice cream with.

Not only were these women beautiful they were complete professionals. They were always looking their best for work. They were always right where you needed them. They were always detail oriented. They were giving….always wanted to make sure everyone was taken care of. They always made sure their blankets were folded and their pillows were fluffy. These were the ‘take the shirt’ of their back type of women.

Unfortunately, all of those descriptions could be taken quite literally. One day these beautiful bombshell bitches, as I like to refer to them as, were gone. Dismayed that these beauties would nowhere to help us all inspire to be ‘cleaning crew’, someone asked one of our managers. Much like the typical managers that most people work with, these people knew nothing…… well, except that these natural wonders were discovered after hours on the plane, in the hangar, filming a porno with the plane as their stage.

I still haven’t found the video. God speed Polish cleaning crew. You’ll be missed.

What Not to Wear

The F*bomb career is the modern day “Mrs.” degree from college which was the only reason my Mother thought a young woman should even consider attending such an institution. It is inconceivable in her mind why a woman would waste her good child bearing years with her plump booty sitting in a library with her pretty little nose stuck in reading material or paying her own bills when she could be at home trying to get pregnant. Although, I do agree with her on the point not much beats “trying to get pregnant’.

You can’t imagine her delight when I told her I had been chosen among the 600,000 applicants to join the exclusive ranks of an F*bomb. I now have the opportunity to meet very rich men or, even better, celebrities looking to date someone that can appreciate their hectic schedule and enjoy a personal life out of the ‘lime light’. (Btw, where does that come from?)

I do meet celebrities. None of them, so far, have bettered my life in any way. Although one of them has given me a false promise so I am feeling that I have indeed had a relationship with a man of power and prestige. I’m not sure if I can say his name because he might sue me for all my collector marbles so I’ll make his name up. Flinton Felly. He looks a lot like, Clinton Kelly, the host of “What Not to Wear”. I did tell him he was going to be on my blog so I feel compelled to post a picture of him.

In a moment of despair, he arrived. In first class looking tall, handsome, perfectly dressed and very charming. You know, one of those guys everyone else’s mother warns them about. Not my mother. My mother taught me to tell your problems to the man and give him the support that he needs to make all your dreams come true. This will make the man want to ‘try to get pregnant’. In order to make my mother proud, I went through with it. I marched right up to him, spun around, posed and said, “What the hell are we going to do with this mess?”

I do remember seeing pictures where the F*bombs looked darling in the perfectly trendy and flattering uniforms. Today we wear tents made of polyester and wool that not only would catch fire should we need to bounce ourselves off an inflatable slide, but also burns you as it rubs against your skin with every move. After tears of dismay and laughter, he agreed to have a chat with my CEO. Lets face it, if I can’t laugh at the way they dress us than nobody can and that kind of entertainment needs be acknowledged. Recently it was pointed out that I had buttons on my sleeves, but yet I still must have lost my mittens. The uniform is just ridiculous.

To this day, no letter to my CEO. Here is my letter to him. 'Dear Flinton Felly, I am disappointed in you. I do not want to try to get pregnant with you. Love, F*bomb.'

Roller(bag) Derby

She's preparing for battle. She buttons up her blue crisp ugly uniform. Rolls up those 4 day-worn-in-tattered-nylons. Puts on those hooker heels. Tightens her grip on the Rollerboard/Rollerbag. And with a glint of revenge in her eye..... SHHHEEEEEE'SS OOOOOOOOOFFFF!! Down the Airport terminal she goes!! Weaving in & out of obstacles; aka annoying passengers!! Dodging stupid questions by inexperienced travelers; aka annoying passengers!! Stopping briefly to grab a Starbucks; YES!! Trying to time arriving at the gate perfectly so she isn't late, but isn't early!! Watch out mother's of crying babies! Watch out people that ring their call buttons!! Watch out people that take smelly shits on the airplane!! SHE. IS. COooooMING!! ...BUT ALAS! The beautiful and heroic F*Bomb comes across... *Dum*Dum*Dum... a freakin passenger standing in the middle of the moving walkway!! :^O (That's a shocked face) Oh No! What is the F*Bomb to do?! Her only choice. (this is where the "glint of revenge" comes into play) Run his ass over! Knock him over with the Rollerbag! Go sista Go! (And the crowd goes wild! YEAhhhhh!) Nothing can stop her!! Not even your toes!! They are mere casualties in the line of duty!
Moral of the Story: WALK/RUN on the left hand side of the moving walkway and STAND on the right side. DON'T take up the whooooole walkway. We will run yo ass over & enjoy it... so beware of Roller(bag) Derby.

One in the Clink

I’ve been told a few times that I have quite an imagination. Not by my 3rd grade teacher that gave me a check under ‘needs improvement’ under the ‘ability to use imagination’ part of my report card which was shortly followed with another ‘needs improvement’ under the ‘social skills’ section. I feel that I have overcome these obstacles and perhaps compensated for them in my adult life.

With that said, I have often wondered what happens to the items Customs finds in people’s suitcases that they haven’t claimed on their Declaration card or perhaps isn’t even legal. What kind of party do these people have with all the drugs they ‘confiscate’? Do they eat the birds that have been tranquilized in someone’s jacket from the Asia flights? Say for example, someone brought over a human skull for a religious ceremony, what do they do with that? Put in on the mantle in the break room? Then….what happens to these people? Are they sent home? Are they shot like they are in Thailand? Used for practice in the military? What happens? I have to know.

Well, after grilling a customs agent which includes what I would like imagine as him being in a dark room with only a cold, child sized, metal chair for him to sit on so that he looks up at me only to see the glare of a 1970’s light bulb blinding him and the sound of my booming voice throwing question after question at him. In reality, I rode home on the train with him and we only sat together because it was packed and he was the only safe looking person to sit next to. I thought perhaps he would be the type of person to rescue me from a homeless person that was trying to get me to sit on his lap like to good ‘dumb white bitch’ that other homeless people in the streets of San Francisco like to describe me as. I’m sure I deserve it, but is it really necessary to yell it in front of everyone? Give me a chance to prove it myself. They kill all my fun.

Anyway, coming to find out there are jail cells in the airport…in every airport. Actually, there are two types. One is a holding cell for people that are polite and just made a mistake. These types of cells are much like an apartment with food, television, couches…all the comforts of home. These are usually for the foreigners.

The other type is a real cell. These are for people that have meltdowns. People that think that by speaking at the customs agent in such a level that dogs will scratch through walls or hide in their kennels like its July 4th, they will back down and tell them that the United States Customs regulations is really just a guideline and that it certainly does not include people that threaten them or all their entire family with all the power of all their ones of dollars. These cells are primarily for indignant Americans…or f*bombs gone mad. I’ve attached a video for your reference. Enjoy.

Ps. The customs agent told me that confiscated materials are placed in an incinerator.

Pss. I don’t believe him.