At the 11:11...

Here's a blast from the past. It's an excerpt from a column I wrote regarding Air Travel. You know, because I flew so much that I had to bitch about it. It's a letter to a fictional little boy that apparently was kicking my chair:

Billy? Was that you’re name? You probably remember me. I was sitting in front of you and was one of the nice people that were trying to find your teddy bear, “Woofie.” Yes, we looked, and we looked, and no one could findyour bear. You got off of the plane, crying, like a six-year-old often does when he or she loses a prized toy. Funny thing? Woofie was in my backpack the whole time. That’s right! You see, when I have to get up at 5am, I get grouchy… Like Oscar the Grouch from Sesame Street. In adult terms, it’s best not to fuck with me. So when you kicked the back of my seat eight or nine thousand times, I got really grouchy. In adult terms, fucking pissed. During your fourth mid-flight “potty break,” I took woofie from your seat, leaving only the blanket in which you covered him. Woofie got to ride home with me in my “Goochmobile.” Can you say “Goochmobile?” I knew you could! Can you say “cigarette lighter?“ I knew youcould… you seemed like a smart kid. Do you know what a “car cigarettelighter is?” Ask your Mom… ‘cause that’s what I torched your fucking bear with, you little bastard.

Classic Gooch.

out.