A million inside jokes are packed into this airplane story. If you weren’t on the best bachelor of Sept 13-17, you probably want to tune in for the next installment of Skiing In Jeans.
I boarded the plane and sat across the aisle from my buddy Homer. Dropping in next to me was a seemingly nice couple who immediately started telling me they were going aboard to blast red stag deer and mount them in a lion hunting scene in their basement.
“Thisssss is your captain sssspkeaing…” a major speech impediment ripped through the intercom. I am sure the pilot was a very nice man who would be great to hang out with at a pub after landing, but while in flight, I hoped his ability to fly was better than his anchorman voice.
“Here look at this,” the husband said as he pulled out his phone to show me a limp giraffe immediately after the kill. “I was in a helicopter. You see, it’s not much of a fair fight, you know, man versus beast.” I gathered that much after he said “helicopter”.
I glanced over at Benedict who was a row behind me, he was flipping through a book of Bauhaus architecture and talking nonstop about his European adventure. The old lady next to him felt like I did sitting next to Ted Nugent. Benedict rambled on and on about straight lines, boring windows and how the root of all great architecture starts with a box of Hungry Jack instant mashed potatoes.
“So what do you?” I pondered trying to get Papa John off the topic of killing for sport. Sitting in the economy minus section was taking a toll on my knees.
“I.T., but I really like to hunt, let me show you some pictures…” he continued the conversation as if I didn’t already listen the entire ascent discussing hunting Babar.
The drink cart barreled down the aisle causing at least three elbow fractures. One of the stewardesses looked like a less strung-out Lindsey Lohan. Dave, ten rows up from me, pulled out his W2 and laid down his rap. She was mildly amused, but moved on to a ten-gallon hat wearing Texan who looked like an oilman.
SPOILER ALERT: On this trip of 15 dudes, I, the married guy, am the only one to get some. A plump, middle-age, beyond drunk woman kissed me on the forehead. Then she wandered off to suck face with someone more age and physically appropriate for her. I felt betrayed.
“Here are 400 African shelduck we got last January; only a couple got away,” he said with the same sense of accomplishment as a cardiologist who performed a life-saving surgery on an infant. In his excitement of reenacting a kill shot, he knocked his wine all over my Z. Cavaricci’s. He apologized out of obligation.
“How many men did you lose out there?” I asked in a sardonic tone.
“Huh? One guy got the squirts for a couple days,” he replied, “look at the angle we had these birds coming over the crest—they didn’t see us until it was too late.” If I stroked out from one of the many blood clots forming in my body, I would consider it a blessing.
Desperation set in as I noticed the big game hunter was only a fraction of the way through his photo album. I motioned a fraternity distress signal in an attempt for Homer to save me from death by lecture, but he was bartering See’s candies piece by piece for miniatures of Courvoisier. With his attention diverted, I looked elsewhere for help. Too bad there wasn’t a friend upgrade option when I was buying my fraternal bond in college.
Near the exit rows, Andre finished the handle of peach schnapps that he smuggled onto the flight. As we flew over Greenland, I realized the plane was going to suffer for him not bringing a second bottle onboard. Already his rants about Range Rovers not being a value play and how he doesn’t need life insurance because he bets on himself caused the passengers to cringe. The beast became more agitated when he grabbed the latest issue of Tech Crunch only to see the “dumbest guy from our [internationally acclaimed university]” on the cover. This sent him into a rage that would make Amanda Bynes seem suitable for release from the sanitarium.
“What we have here is a black rhino. There are about 5,000 left. There was 5,001,” he let out a belly laugh that would make Satan jealous. I wondered why the airport didn’t sell P.E.T.A hats, or if they did, why didn’t I buy one before boarding the flight?
I excused myself to use the bathroom, free up blood clots, and escape the talk of bloodshed. Near the back of the plane, Jacko fidgeted like a pre-teen with ADD. His inability to connect to FaceTime caused him to break out in a sweat while shaking on the verge of seizure. His dilated eyes glared through me. I moved down the aisle choosing the vacuum powdered toilet over dealing with a screen junkie.
As I sat back down next to Walter Palmer, the cameo scene of Pamela Anderson from the new Baywatch movie was frozen on Joel’s TV screen in front of me. I wondered if he was joining the solo-mile high club, if the twenty-nine Xanax he took before takeoff finally kicked in and put him to sleep, or maybe the never-ending talk of blowing up warthogs knocked him out.
The meal service started. Ernest Hemmingway attempted to steal my dinner wine before retreating to his reheated vegetarian meal.
Here’s to you Thomas. Enjoy bumping uglies for the first time in your near half of century of life. She is lucky girl to be hitched to you and your untamed mane of Fabio-looking hair. Just don’t let her see the “Natalie” tattoo on your right calf.