DISCLAIMER: No pilots or passengers were harmed or endangered during the experiencing of this 4-day. All alcoholic consumption was performed by a professional pilot on a closed course. Results not typical. If personally witnessed, induce vomiting. If my name is ever associated with this 4 day, seek immediate medical attention. (You’re going to need it.)
Day 1:
In the shitter in Orlando, the dude in the stall next to me gets a call and the ring is “I just called to say I love you.” To keep from laughing, I hold my breath and break a blood vessel in my right eye. 24 hours in San Juan. Got drunk. Smoked cigars. Clogged the only, and as I found out way too late –inoperative, toilet in the bar with my hideous and mysterious diarrhea.
In keeping with the vague, lazy-eye handyman ethos of – “that’s probably good enough,” the toilet is directly opposite the bar less than 5 feet from the doomed drinkers. The door fits like it’s from a tree house. The toilet won’t flush. And I have to wipe with cocktail napkins I stole from the bar.
I tell the waiter who laughs his ass off and makes me repeat it to the bartender. Proto puts photos of said shit on his Facebook page. Drunk female United First Officer asks me, “Your place or mine?” I decide neither so Proto spills more beer on her. In retaliation she gives her Captain a lap dance, forgets her sunglasses and staggers out.
We order takeout pizza and eat it in the bar.
Day 2:
Wake up to the bland horror of the Sotomayor confirmation hearings. It does not mix well with my headache. Decide to walk old town since we don’t leave till 1500. Sweat so much I’m forced to buy a child’s baseball hat with a shark on it. Only a propeller would make me look more retarded. I pretend I don’t speak English.
Get into PHL late (2330). Get the security guard to give me a ride to a rough part of town for beer. Sit out front of hotel with Capt. and a cute FA drinking duty free rum till about 0230. Capt ends up getting a blow job from the FA. All I got was this stupid headache.
Day 3:
Capt. buys massive sushi in PHL airport. We chow down at 41,000 feet and take pictures of how much our job sucks. Manage not to see the shuttle launch in Orlando due to the haze and possibly looking out the wrong side of the terminal. Tell the bitchy ground controller in BWI, “Don’t control angry.”
Parking in BOS around 2100, we wait for ten minutes as the NOT fat ramper runs back and forth between gates looking for lighted wands. The fat one watches with rampaging disinterest. Skinny finally comes back with a wand. We give up and park. Dee and Dum turn out to be supervisors.
Decide to go down to the bar in BOS and let the bartender be rude to me for an hour. This costs me $40 but comes with all the Obama administration socioeconomic mosquito bite analogies I can come up with while I continue my studies on the effect of cursing and cigar smoke on mosquito behavior. Scratching my analogies, I spill “That Which Will Soon Be Pee” on my crotch. The irony leaves a large yellow stain.
Day 4:
Capt. forages Clam Chowder in Boston. Swap planes in <<Home>>. Medical emergency going to DFW. The Lead Flight Attendant immediately implodes and delaminates. Calls the cockpit to complain that one of the other flight attendants was rude to her and then hangs up before we can get any information about the patient.
She calls back to tell us we’ll be grounded in DFW because the doctor on board opened the EMK. (If the Emergency Medical Kit is opened, we need a new one which they don’t have in DFW. We have a spare up here in the cockpit, but she wanted us to be late so her PHL overnight would get re-crewed). Still no info on the sick guy. Turns out the man just hasn’t eaten all day. Passes out repeatedly. Paramedics meet the plane.
– end of line.