Wednesday, June 30, 2010

Travel Tales Part 1: Karen.

There are people in this world for whom travel is a breeze. These bastards are generally found in first class. They settle into seats the size of a Cadillac, drink champagne,  and they eat fresh food that was not made of freeze-dried hog shit. I bet they can even tilt the seat back during take off and landing.

I know. Douchebags. I have an intense dislike for them as well.

But not because of the impeccable service, gourmet food and the miles of leg-room. For me, it's because of people... like Karen.

I was dozing off a few rows away from the assholes in first, and as I relaxed into my seat I was convinced that they paid an extra 5k euros for the food. Until seat 13B, next to me, was filled.

"HHHIIIIIIIeeeeeeeee!!" she screamed into my earbuds, "Myyeee name iaz Kareeen!!!". She said this to me as if her name were the cure for fucking cancer and she shoved her hand in front of my half-open eyes. 

Make no mistake. Introductions on flights are a bad omen. She might as well have said "Hi there. I'm here to make this flight as comfortable and relaxing as an enema of chinese throwing stars."

I reluctantly introduced myself and she proceeded to tell me her EN-TIRE life story beginning with birth and ending with how she ended up on a singing tour of Greece with sixteen other ladies over sixty. I took a moment of silence for the other passengers suffering my fate.

The flight from Paris to Chicago was already a long one at nine hours. But the minions of hell were hard at work last wednesday. Some fueling contraption needed to be fixed. Then it needed to be replaced. Four hours later, we were apologetically asked to deplane and I had an intense desire to meet the captain and see how far I could wedge my flip-flops up his ass cheeks. Thirteen hours of Mrs K is enough to make you want to suffocate yourself with the vomit bag.

I learned a great many things against my will.

I learned that she had a bad foot. (A tale of grossities I will not relay on the off chance that you may be eating). 

I learned that her son-in-law is way too interested in dogs for his own good and sounds like a real dick.

Most importantly, I learned that first class doesn't buy you better food. It buys you a financial wall of protection against the Karen's of the airplane.



  1. God that is horrible. 9 hours. I used to fly once or twice a month when I still lived in California. Once, on a San Jose to L.A. flight (short one thank god) I was seated next to the most hyperactive, verbal-diarrhea Dutchman on the planet. After inserting my noise-blocking earbuds and assuming a calm, restful, almost Zen-like position, this man--this parasite--would tap me (TAP ME!) to continue telling me inconsequential gibberish. Finally, I told him that I had taken a Xanax and needed to meditate for my "fear of flying".

  2. Well.. It was supposed to be 9, ended up being 13. Hell. Pure hell. Karen was tapping my effing shoulder as well. I did not enjoy her.

  3. Heh!! Sounds sucky!

    LOL @ "relaxing as an enema of chinese throwing stars." I will have to remember that one! :)


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