Ginger Ale, please!

I am loyal to Southwest Airlines. I used to fly spirit but then I was shown the error of my ways by a friend who established himself as a loyal customer. I believe they have done an exceptional job separating themselves as a bastion of hope in an industry run by ogres that do not care for the worries of man.
*Bad grammar in this panel, I know. They are Swedes who do not have a firm grasp of the English language.*


So with the Holidays fast approaching and no real adult-like responsibilities keeping me anchored to the Bay area, I decided to fly back up to Seattle to see my family. To add to my excitement was the opportunity to build on my Southwest Airlines frequent flier miles.


I made a crucial error however, trusting my intuition (read: being lazy) that prices would remain cheap as time progressed. When I finally decided to break free from my favorite time burners, Reddit and Cyanide and Happiness, to purchase a ticket, I saw that they had all jumped 300% to prices I simply could not afford. I began searching for alternatives. Two appealing options were Virgin and Alaska. I have heard of Virgin's reputation for trendy and hip service, but Alaska was a mystery.

The flights for Virgin were not going to fit within my schedule, as I was attempting to coordinate my arrival with that of of my mothers as travel time to and from the airport could be longer than an hour at times.

I arrived at the Oakland airport early. When I made it through security and then to my gate, I discovered my flight had been delayed indefinitely. So much for Alaska Airlines.

Luckily the area is home to some of the biggest animation studios in the world, and they had set up exhibits and drawings throughout the corridors and passageways of the airport. I decided to make use of this free time and visit the exhibits by Pixar, Dreamworks and some others I had not heard of

When I made it back to the gate to see if anything had changed, it turned out that another obscure airline had come to our rescue, Providing us with a propeller plane that would fly us all to Seattle.

I was very excited. I had never been on a propeller plane before.


I turned to my neighbor and declared with brilliant enthusiasm my excitement for the trip before us. He chuckled and with a hint of foreboding pressure, said that the real fun would start once we were up in the air. At this point a flight attendant had stopped at our row and handed my neighbor a small whiskey bottle and a cup filled with ice. He was on to his second drink by this time and we haven't even left the tarmac. I questioned the wisdom of his actions at the time, but realized he was attempting self impose anesthesia. The engines buzzed to a fury and the cabin began to shudder. My shoulders dug deep into my seat and we were hurtling down the runaway until I felt the strange sensation of weightlessness.

The accent to our cruising elevation was unlike most of my experiences on board a jet powered plane. The road up through the clouds was turbulent to say the least.



Once we reached our cruising elevation, the seat belt sign turned itself off and we were flying smoothly high above the clouds. I waited patiently for the stewardess to arrive so I could put in my request for a ginger ale.

Than it began. It started as an occasional shudder that grew into violent seizures. The seat belt sign turned itself back on and a collective murmur passed through the cabin as passengers looked at one another with worry furrowed in their faces.

The violence in the air continued and our little propeller plane struggled to remain steady.

A growing panic began to creep into my mind. Out my window was a sight of Madness.



Our plane was caught in the death throes of some mortal injury. We were bouncing up and down hundreds of feet and the seams of the plane began to creak and groan under the stress. Doom was imminent.

I turned to my neighbor for comfort and saw that he had dozed off into an alcohol induced coma.

And the other passengers had decided that the best way to ignore the thought of instant disintegration was to satisfy their bestial hunger for sin.



I looked down and saw the snow capped spikes of uninhabited mountains. It would be a closed casket funeral, with no body.

At this point I had lost control of my life, and began apologizing profusely to the Maker for any bad deed I had committed, for I was convinced that I would soon be joining him.



And then, caught up in silent prayer, I felt the soft impact of the wheels hitting the tarmac at the Seattle International Airport. Before I disembarked I received a Ginger Ale. A small consolation for what I had gone through.

On the other hand I have sometimes wondered how many children would arise from that terrible, terrible flight on board that dingy propeller plane.

Flaming dandelions and the Four Horsemen of Tomorrow.

"So are you a fan of Joe Haldeman or George R.R. Martin?"

This is a very common question I ask when courting for a mate (which is always...). It has come to my attention that this question has never been answered adequately enough, forcing me at this stage in life to reassess the wisdom of incorporating science fiction and fantasy fandom into such a fragile sales pitch for sex.
I should, instead, focus on other things I am good at. Things that really separate me from the rest of the herd. So I decided to sit down and take stock of my assets.

These "things" include writing poetry on the cuteness of "Build-a-Bear" bears, cooking Indian food under the strict guidance of my Mom, sleeping on a couch and building anthropomorphic sea creatures with lego blocks. Certainly, these are the skills in high demand nowadays. I've even included these skills into my curriculum vitae, putting special emphasis on my advanced knowledge of design using Lego blocks. I hope this catches the attention of a wayward recruiter, swimming through the seas of Indeed, Monster and AdultFriendFinder.

So, being the hottest thing on the block, why is it that I am still single?! How can anyone resist the above mentioned qualities? Is everyone blind to my genius and good looks? I pondered this question when I awoke, shuffling out of bed and scurrying blindly into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me, turning on the light, only to come face to face with a murderous cockroach from the nether realms, ready to draw blood.

My suspicions that we (my roommate, Mike and I) lived in a residence once zoned for atomic weapons testing and/or mutant accelerate juice dumping had been growing as of late. The evidence starts with having negotiated terms with a sentient hand puppet in the form of a frog, named Sir Thadeus McDermot, on living in one of our closets as well as another occurrence where I took a leadership role in mediating peaceful terms between two waring biological masses, now occupying our refrigerator, on the brink of mutually assured destruction. Their actions threatened our meager food supply (which consisted of bread, a 2 lb bag of shredded cheddar cheese and an assortment of condiments) which was to sustain us till the next week when both our paychecks would arrive. I was not willing to tap into my savings to purchase more ramen noodles.



It was a scene of terror beyond anything HP Lovecraft could conjure from his deranged mind. The thing was as big as my fist and it's "hombre's" were beginning to crawl out of the cracks and spaces in droves. Soon I found myself signing over the bathroom rights to the gang, which granted them access to toll charges on our use of the bathroom. Mike was not going to be pleased.

But alas I digress. Before leaving the bathroom in shame and disgust at my own cowardice, having succumbed to the whims of psychotic roaches, I took one good look in the mirror.

My hair has always been an abomination from hell. Its as if, on some dark and distant blot of history, I thought it was a good idea to use a single blade razor to cut my own hair. I have permanent bald spots on the sides of my head. It was once described to me as "Mad Scientist Hair". Surely this is the source of my misfortune.