Fasten Your Seat Belts and Eat Your Fucking Nuts

by Joe Thomas

  “Can you please do something about your kid?”

  “What do you mean?” The father in the middle seat questioned regarding his daughter who sat directly behind her.

  Bertha yelled, “She’s been kicking my seat since we took off. Do something about it.”

  I monitored their conversation, I decided not to get involved unless the confrontation escalated. From past experiences, I know there’s nothing worse than sitting in front of a child who spends hours kicking the back of your seat, but even this lady was out of line. From where I stood, the little girl’s legs were inches away from reaching the seat.

  He calmly said, “I had no idea. You could ask me in a nicer tone.”

  “This is my nice tone!” She answered abruptly and turned back to the book she was reading.

  I made eye contact with the father and smiled; he did not. His anger wasn’t directed at me, that I knew for sure, but I sensed he wanted to wrap his hands around Bertha’s throat until she stopped breathing. To be honest—she had it coming. I continued tending to my passengers for the rest of the flight while keeping a close eye on Bertha, making sure she wasn’t gagging on her copy of The Shack each time I walked by.

  After we landed and blocked in at the gate, I stood in the front galley thanking everyone as they walked off the airplane. The father made his way up the aisle with his wife and daughter and I thanked him. He smirked. They walked off the airplane and onto the jet bridge just as the ground operations employee brought up their stroller. While the wife took the bags and continued up the jet bridge into the terminal, the father tended to his daughter and her stroller. Bertha walked passed me but I rejected her eye contact making it look like something caught my attention in the middle of the airplane. She looked like a Shar Pei and was bigger than I first thought. When she stepped onto the jet bridge it went down a good three inches. I laughed.

  One thing about Bertha was she didn’t know when to leave well enough alone. Fat, stupid, and dined on kibble. That’s Nashville for you. She waddled right up to the father as he bent over strapping his daughter into her stroller, "You need to learn how to discipline your child,"

  He continued fidgeting, ignoring her comment. It seemed as if he was taking the high road. Not what I would have done, but kudos to him for not being vulgar and crass like me.

  Not so much. Apparently, he was my long lost twin.

  He snapped up from his position and unleashed on her, "Mind your fucking business, bitch!" His voice roared through the jet bridge and right into his daughter’s ears. Definitely poor parenting but I’m excited thinking about her busting out the word fuck on her first day of kindergarten.

  Bertha stood there in shock. Actually, it might have been a brain bleed from her head exploding. I am not a doctor so I do not know. Just to be safe I grabbed for the AED but then turned back to the scene and said fuck it. My fear was she’d go into cardiac arrest and fall over, bringing the entire jet bridge crashing to the ground-another reason to dislike Bertha. The dad grabbed the stroller handles and pushed his kid up the jet bridge ending the conversation. Bertha didn’t respond. She had no words. He sucked the alphabet right out of her meaty esophagus. As Regal and I collected our bags and walked off the airplane we had to jump over her jaw. She still hadn’t picked it up. It was a fat jaw.

  The next morning was a repeat of the night before. Regal and I boarded so many asshole kids you’d think we were heading to Sudan to marry them off. Anarchy at 38,000 feet. Rambunctious children and their overstressed parents up in the aisle before we even started beverage service. Rocking their annoying brats and breastfeeding in my galley while I attempted to pour the old lady in 2B some decaf coffee. Out of control. Regal came to the front of the airplane to grab something and I took it as an invite to bitch about all the kids on the flight.

  “There are only 100 seats on the airplane so how could there be 1,000 kids?”

  Regal placed her hand on my shoulder and encouraged me to take a deep breath. She shared, “I was flying with my mother a few months ago and I thought I was prepared bringing my son with us. I was wrong. We brought everything on the flight. Toys, books, crayons, food…”

  “Sleeping pills?”

  “No,” she thought for a moment, “but that’s a great idea.” Smiling she continued, “We brought everything else. He wouldn’t sit still or stop crying. I was up in the back galley asking for juice, milk, anything to shut him up. He was a lunatic.”

  “Really? You couldn’t control him.”

  “He was like a different kid. I was so embarrassed. He didn’t stop crying until we landed.”

  I thought about that for a minute. If a trained flight attendant was unable to manage her own child on a two hour flight, how could we expect a novice airline passenger to do it? Was that asking too much? Then I remembered Bertha. She was tough on that father and all he was doing was taking care of his kid and keeping her quiet on the flight, which he did with great success. I stand by my belief that the little girl’s legs were too short to kick Bertha’s seat. Bertha was just a cranky mean bitch. I did not want to be a Bertha. Even Bertha doesn’t want to be a Bertha.

  That memory was lost until I found myself sitting next to Jacob on the flight to Orlando contemplating whether to smother him with his red lobster or let him live to see elementary school. I held a grudge against Jacob for simply breathing. But let’s face it: he’s a kid and even though kids are assholes, I’m an adult and needed to act the part. I shifted my anger and frustration from Jacob’s bad behavior to how his father must be feeling. Would I ignore my child if he was an asshole? No. I’d beat the hell out of him. But Jacob’s father felt the best way to handle him was to ignore him. Not the way I’d do things, but who am I to judge? Another reason why I don’t have children and the universe gave me a dick instead of a uterus.

  Everything became crystal clear: I couldn’t be a Bertha to this dad or his son. I felt bad for the father and instantly wanted his big dick again. I may have ADHD.

  While these thoughts played out in my head, Jacob continued carrying on like an asshole. No question about it. He was practically in my lap trying to open the window shade while his father played some random game on his iPhone. After I finally came to terms with Jacob, and stopped daydreaming about his demise, I carefully nudged him back into his seat. Why wasn’t his seatbelt on?

  Removing my earbuds I waved over to the dad and caught his attention. “He should really be wearing his seat belt.”

  He peeled his eyes off the iPhone and looked over at me flustered like I was employed by Child Protective Services, “Oh… right. He must have unbuckled it.” He nestled the cell phone between his thighs and under his huge bulging ball sac and pushed Jacob down in his seat, “Enough young man. You’ve been harassing this guy the entire flight.”

  Oh. So he was aware of the hell his seed had put me through for the past two hours. Interesting.

  “I want window. Daddy, now!”

  “No. Sit there and behave.”

  During their back and forth argument Jacob tossed his stuffed red lobster in the air and it landed in the row in front of us. Without hesitation, the passenger—who had endured Jacob kicking and pushing on his seat throughout the entire flight—tossed it right back. He was done with Jacob, too.

  While Jacob and his dad wrestled to get the seat belt fastened I became caught in the crossfire. “Do you have any kids?” He asked me as he finally pinned Jacob down by the throat (I knew that’s how it was done) and fastened his seat belt. He was sweating. That made him even hotter.

  I laughed, “No sir.”

  “You are smarter than I am.”

  No six words were ever truer.

  The Strange Artichoke Lady

  On a crisp San Francisco morning in the middle of August, Matt dropped me off at the airport to catch an early flight to Omaha, Nebraska. Before I go any further I know exactly what you are thinking: Why the fuck visit Omaha? And on purpose? I’ve asked myself that same question. Was it the
rich culture? The love of a great Richard Marx’s song? (If you don’t know the song “Hazard” from 1992, you are dead to me.) The hopes of obtaining a low interest rate loan from Warren Buffett?

  A lube optional bareback cornhole party? Not exactly, but pretty damn close. What brought me to Omaha was a friend’s wedding. A gay wedding. A gay wedding taking place across the state line in Iowa. Let that sentence sink in for a few seconds. Go ahead. Take your time. Still confused? A Democrat might explain it as two loving and consenting adults—who just happen to live in the midwest—experiencing the joy of matrimony. A Republican might explain it as a two-homosexual-cornholing-dudes-burning-in-hell wedding. That pretty much clears it up on both sides of the argument. But let’s get to the big question, the one we are all asking, or at least the one I asked when I received the invitation in the mail. Was it legal for two homosexuals to get married in Iowa?[2] It’s so far-fetched I checked Wikipedia to make sure gay marriage was legal before I started looking up flights. To my surprise, it’s as legal as buying marijuana in Denver. That was a relief. I had accidently thrown away their wedding gift receipt.

  Let me correct myself before I get gay bashed walking out of a hotel one day by another gay. Many like calling it same-sex marriage. An even better term is simply, marriage. No need to add anything to it. But for the sake of this story, I’ll refer to it as same-sex marriage. Like I was saying, same-sex marriage in the Midwest? How the fuck did that happen? A better question might be, how had the world—or at least that region of the United States—not collapse into the depths of hell?

  According to many radical Christians, Jesus is super-duper fucking pissed-off about marriage equality. Apparently, he’s so upset that he will be returning to Earth at any minute. Any fucking minute! You might think that’s UPS knocking at your front door with your Amazon package but nope… it’s gonna be Jesus Christ. If you were raised Catholic like I was, you’ve been hearing that shit since the first time you were forced to admit to your sins.

  “Jesus is coming! Jesus is coming!” He’s been coming for so long I think the correct term is edging. “Jesus is edging! Jesus is edging!” Sounds way more accurate. My grandmother bleached her sheets in preparation of Jesus coming. She was one of them crazy Catholics. I find it better to wash your sheets after someone came, not before. Shows you how much I know about preparing for the rapture. According to my grandmother, the only thing that stood between her and a ticket to heaven was a set of crusty sheets.

  Humanity has gone through quite a few gruesome events in our history. The Holocaust. Donald Trump running for President of the United States. The time I shit myself at a gay bar after a night of hot wings, beer, and shots of Jägermeister. None of those atrocities matter to the crazy Christians. Well, unless a crazy gay Christian cleaned up the disaster I left behind in the restroom stall. What if it was Keegan? That would explain a lot.

  The only event these so-called Christians focus on, when it comes to Jesus, is same-sex marriage. According to them, same-sex marriage has pissed off Jesus enough to bring him back to Earth triggering Armageddon. Can that be right? Not the six million Jews exterminated by the Nazis? Nope. Not bad enough. It’s same-sex marriage that has infuriated Jesus enough to throw up his hands and call foul on the people of Earth.

  I need to hurry up and move to Mars.

  But what if Jesus Christ has already returned? What if he’s masking his identity for fear of being turned into a human scarecrow again? I’d hide for sure. How many holes can one person take in their hands before they’re forced to work as a sous chef draining vegetables? If you don’t think it’s possible he’s already returned, just take a look at psycho David Koresh. Remember him? From Wacko, Texas. I misspelled that on purpose. Waco. Wacko. What’s the difference? He even looked like Jesus. Not Middle Eastern Jesus but long-haired whitey Jesus. The Jesus my grandmother cleaned her sheets for.

  In all honesty, Mr. Koresh—aka Texas Jesus—never claimed to be Jesus Christ. What he claimed was to be the final prophet. And that he was the son of God. I don’t know about you but if it walks and talks like the son of God-it’s probably just some crazy person. Along with the gazillion Christians in the United States, the FBI did not give a fuck. Prophet Schmophet. What did the FBI do to him? Kaboom! Set him and his followers ablaze. Scorched them to the ground like they were at Burning Man. Prophet on Fire. If only Alicia Keys was around to record such a hit I’d have run to Peaches for that CD. Poor David. Poor Jesus. I can’t imagine what’s worse: crisping up like a charred marshmallow or hanging in the hot sun for a few days? All I’m saying is that if I was the Lord & Savior and returned to this fucked up planet, I’d be hiding out working in the shoe department at Lord & Taylor in case I slipped up.

  Jesus Christ: “Don’t hesitate young man. You should purchase these shoes.”

  Customer: “Do you really think so?”

  JC: “Yes. For I am your Lord & Savior.”

  Customer: “What?”

  JC: “Um. Yes you should. For I work at Lord & Taylor.”

  But back to same-sex marriage. How many evangelical Christians do you think we lost when Iowa declared it was unconstitutional to deny two loving adults the opportunity to marry? Did these righteous individuals crumble in the streets dying of heart attacks as hundreds of gays skipped down the streets of Des Moines, Iowa with rainbow glitter flying out of their asses? If not dead in the streets then certainly barricaded in their basements waiting for the mall to close so Jesus could wrap up his shift and save them.

  Now that that’s off my chest I can move forward with the scene that developed during the second leg of my flight from San Francisco to Omaha, the Denver to Omaha leg. Flying free on another airline is fantastic, but traveling standby often leaves you-or specifically me-with a shitty seat. Or a shitty boarding pass number depending on the airline I’m flying. When I fly on airlines with open seating it’s always a disappointment. I am thrilled to get on the flight but know that my ass will be in a middle seat. Sandwiched between two strangers who I’ll never want to see again. It’s inevitable.

  When I grab my boarding pass from the gate agent and read it out loud I feel like an elderly lady calling bingo numbers in a church basement, “C59. I’m the last to walk on the airplane. Bingo!”

  I boarded the flight and instantly started scanning the rows while walking down the aisle. Carefully looking at each empty middle seat—that’s all that was left—I tried determining who I’d want to crawl over in case the airplane became engulfed in flames. There wasn’t a single person worthy of spending the next four hours fighting over an armrest with or having to straddle each time I had to get up use the lavatory. I reached the second to last available middle seat and decided it was time to man up and deal with the consequences. The seat was nestled between a large white woman and a fit black lady. The hefty white woman was seated in the aisle so I concluded I’d die attempting to climb over her thighs in the event we landed in pieces on the runway. “Man up, Joe,” I kept telling myself, “Man the fuck up! You can’t always have the perfect seat on the perfect flight. Remember, you didn’t even pay for this fucking ticket.”

  A reality check can do wonders in that type of situation.

  Looking crisp and professional in my flight attendant uniform, I made eye contact with the white lady on the aisle, smiled, and placed my luggage in the overhead bin.

  “Excuse me, is anyone sitting between you?” I asked closing the overhead bin.

  “It’s empty.” She answered moving her copy of Dear John by Nicholas Sparks, a Bible, and an overstuffed Burger King bag from the seat. The smell of her french fries would be the death of me. So would her Bible if she started preaching. “You know what,” she said out loud, “let me give you the aisle seat and I will sit by Loretta.” She pushed up the armrest, unbuckled her seat belt, and shimmied her ham cheeks over into the middle seat. As she pushed Loretta up against the window, Loretta pursed up her lips and gave me a look as if to say, “Bitch! You white fuckers won
’t let a black woman have nothing!”

  “Thank you very much.” I waited for her to get all the way into the middle seat when I realized she was already as far over as she was going to get. No way was her ass fitting on just one seat; that reminded me of attempting to stuff Shamu into a fish bowl. Hopefully, Loretta had some butter or Crisco in her carry-on (you know, in case she wanted to fry up some chicken in the galley mid flight) but the way she stared me down, I lost all hope for buttermilk chicken. I knew any possible friendship with Loretta was over the moment her left arm became disabled and crushed by the weight of her caucasian friend. She hadn’t even had the opportunity to fall in love with me like most black women do.

  “Lord in heaven, this thingamajig ain’t working,” my seatmate stated while attempting to pull the armrest down after it became stuck on one of her belly rolls.

  I smiled, “It’s alright. This will be fine.”

  Before I had time to secure my seat belt she looked over, “My name is Sandy. As you probably guessed, this is Loretta. We work together. It’s been a long time. How many years has it been, Loretta?”

  Loretta bitterly answered, “It’s been a long time. “

  Sandy continued, “That’s true. It’s been a long time. We’ve been in Denver for work.” I looked over at Loretta and smiled. She gave me so much shade I thought the sun went down.