Flying into LaGuardia, a trip I have never liked, I came face to face with a barf bag. Or the concept of one. The pilot informed us that we'd experience "rough air" for our descent, and before long the plane was having an epileptic fit. Whee, I thought as I clutched my innards and waited sweatily for the pyloric explosion. But, alas, there was nothing to expel my soul contents into. Maybe Delta had given up barf bags for Lent? And there was not an attendant in sight. The only thing that kept me from spewing was the idea of doing it in front of the yuppie Wall Street fucks around me (stock quotes on their laptops, talking about golf, trying very hard to be world's biggest stereotypes). So, thanks, yuppie fucks! The plane shucked and jived. Then the wing broke off and we went into a spiral of death into Manhattan and I screamed and screamed and screamed.
The next day we admired Mr Frick's fuck-you-poor-people mansion filled with world masterpieces. Then Tom, Mary and I had a bite to eat at the local greasy spoon. 150 dollars was the final tab. Maybe I should have held off on the tuna melt? Forty-deuce street. I be trippin'! And be ripped off!
At the Met I made many illuminating and perspicacious comments. However, I was very disappointed there were no sexy unicorns. What the hell kind of place is this?!
"Wull, gulleee. Lookit that wun. And that wun...!"
Reggie at least finally got one of his paintings into the museum!
I like the way Reggie thinks.....
At the Strand I encountered a young Hindu lady carrying the very book I was reading and I thought of saying something to her, but then remembered all my many restraining orders. Stupid judicial system. We ate at Trump Tower's Trump Grille where we bought Trump hats, Trump shirts, and Trump condoms. Then I marveled as Tom guzzled down an entire tremendo-vat of coffee at the local Walgreen's. Ahhhh. Caffeine delivery system! Now we can tackle the horror of watching the Oscars! (Didn't work.)
Snowmeggedon was rolling into New York, and it was seeming doubtful I'd get out alive, or uneaten. But then the snow didn't really arrive (Al Gore, you bastard) and it seemed my flight would be okay. HA. When I got to LaGuardia I found that my flight was delayed, and then delayed again. I had many, many hours to kill. So I popped into the Delta Skyclub thinking this would cure my airport blues. I paid my fifty bucks, but there were no go-go dancers. Just no-no businessmen. And all the sasparilla a feller could drink! But after trying to sleep draped over a desk, I saw that my flight was essentially canceled. Thinking of Tom Hanks in that airport movie I never saw, I paid yet more money and checked into a hotel. The next morning it seemed my dreams would be fulfilled at last--until the pilot told us to all get off the plane, there was some flubber problem. Not enough of it, or so is my understanding. So I waited another half-day for another plane to send me to a fiery death in an Iowa cornfield somewhere.
So there you have it. I'm an idiot. (I think that's the moral to draw from all this...)