An assortment of letters written on route to San Francisco.
Dear O’Hare Airport Staff,
As much as I appreciate the continued tedium of your paranoid existence, I wish you would understand that unlike many, many others out there my main ambition today is not to blow you up. On mornings like this where I’m kicking myself for taking an obnoxiously early flight (for-a-perfectly-good-reason-that-makes-absolutely-no-sense-right-now) I recognize that the urge to kill you is perfectly valid and quite strong, you must realize that inherent narcissism will prevent me from blowing myself up in the process of getting to you. The truth is, people like me, we’re harmless when it comes to grand plans to blow things up. If we want to kill people, we think of more effective measures like cyanide. Or slow painful torture where we make you take of every single thing you’re wearing repeatedly and then walk slowly through long-long lines. To make the experience even worse than waterboarding (because believe you me, if we try hard enough that is a possibility) we’re going to delay every single flight (and corresponding connection) you have by a couple of hours – just for fun. And then we’re going to lose the baggage we forced you to check in. By the end of the entire experience you’ll be so frustrated with life in general that you’ll spare us the unfortunate experience of killing you by committing suicide. So you see, there is no need to repeatedly empty out my bags and make me take of my clothes. My plan to kill you is far more complicated (and effective) than an empty headed plot to blow up a plane in mid-air.
Dear O’Hare Airport,
Please stop letting obscenely cheerful tourists inside the vicinity of normal people early in the morning. When you are checking people’s status’ to make sure they are not Bin Laden in disguise, please also make sure that tourists, in particular honeymooning tourists, are screened with utmost strictness. I am sure you recognize how nauseating it is, at 5:57am with less than an hour of sleep and a harrowing baggage check-in behind is, as we wait for a delayed flight, how utterly revolting it is to come face to face with smiling faces that have nothing better to do than to smooch the smile of each other’s faces with tedious regularity. The specimens sitting in front of me, for example, are prime candidates for maximum security detention in an obscure corner of this country, far-far away from ‘real people’ who do not take out their cameras and snap twenty-two (and counting) pictures of a single person in a single pose sitting in a single chair in a single airport lounge. Their determinedly cheerful visage and obsession with documenting every instance of their misbegotten love lives convinces me that these two are evil spies bent on destroying this country. They may even be *gasp* ‘MoZlems’ in disguise. I beg you, in the interests of our (mine and yours) continued sanity to immediately remove them from the premises and ban them from ever brightening the hallowed darkness of this waiting lounge with their disgustingly sunny presence ever again.
Thanking you in anticipation,
Stop yelling on the fucking phone. I understand that you’re loud and the person you’re talking to is entirely deaf. But shouting from Chicago will not effectively transmit your voice to the Caribbean (or-wherever-it-is-your-deaf-friend-lives). What it WILL undoubtedly do, on the other hand, is motivate me to turn around and poke you in the eye. Self preservation demands that you shut-the-fuck-up already!