Flying First Class With God

Like the rest of my office, I've been doing some pretty serious globe-trotting as of late, from barely escaping the tsunami in the Far East, to Vegas where Slayer rained blood on the Blue Man Group until they resembled four used tampons. I stopped briefly in the City of Angels before making my way back to Panama to the first annual Cocaine Olympics, in which a pair of two-man teams will be pitted against one another. The duo who first inhales of a half ounce of boogersugar shall win the Gold Medal and earn free plastic surgery to repair a deviated septum. Any team member having a heart attack or stroke results in immediate disqualification. Now I know what you are thinking, amateurs and professionals alike: That doesn't even sound like fun.

Of course not. It's competition. It's not supposed to be fun.

After the finals, we're off to the porn convention. I know - it's a tough life.

One thing I have realized departing all of these locales in various states of discombobulation is that the only way to travel is First Class. It's nice not to have your knees pressed into your face like you just got stuffed in the back of a cop car, or having motherfuckers sneezing bird flu in every direction, or have annoying kids screaming and whining all around. To me, flying First Class should be a period to convalesce between punishing your mind, liver, and soul in one city before the next venue.

ONE THING FIRST CLASS ISN'T, HOWEVER, IS A PLACE TO TAKE YOUR FAT ASS AND YOUR FAT WHINING KIDS THAT FLY FOR FREE SO YOU HAVE ROOM FOR ALL OF YOUR FAT FUCKING ASSES!!

So, I'm sitting there ready to relax when the fattest, dumpiest pair of Midwestern parents sits down around me with their three kids. The proud fat daddy wakes me up out of my pre-flight slumber:

“Hey man, do you mind if you move over so we can all sit together?”

I happily oblige and sit against the window, try to doze back off. Muffled underneath the screams of his bratty kids, though, I can actually hear him getting fatter. At the rate he was expanding, I gave him about six months to live - if he didn't take the plane down first due to poor weight distribution. I try, in vain, to doze back off but all I can hear is screaming kids, the revolting babytalk to these little shit and piss factories, and the feet kicking the back of my seat. And if that wasn't enough…

They break out the Bible and start reading holy stories to these little inbred mutants, but they are not the run-of-the-mill archaic Mad-Lib-sounding Isaiah 4:13 bullshit - it was “Jesus and the 12 Dudes” - yes, some newfangled hipified translation to brainwash today's generation with fear and guilt.

And they said Joe Camel was bad.

I agree with Jesse Ventura who says that religion is a crutch for the weak minded. Christians and Catholics are nothing but inmates, held in mental bondage in stained glass prisons - believing Burning Bushes, the Arc, and the days of miracles that have passed. Indeed, after all my travels, I can even tell you why Jesus could walk on water:

Shit floats.

It was time to bust out the iPod, at which point I proceed to sing aloud every word of Slayer, Bathory, and Venom while the Lard Family drones on about the Jesus and the 12 Dudes.

“Hey son, do you mind? I have kids,” quips the fat man.

“Hey man, do YOU mind? They don't make these seats extra-wide so you can sit your extra-wide ass on them and stack you bratty kids three high while you drone on about baby Jesus. I worship Satan and I find this patently offensive.”

He just blankly stared back. Maybe someday, Jesus will forgive him. But I won't.