Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Drunk On A Plane (My Trip To Belize)

             Welcome to the first of several installments of my blog series concerning my trip to Belize! Over the next week, I will be taking you step by step along my adventure with my co-workers to a far away land in Central America. In order to best inform you and include you in the hilarity, I must give you an overview of all the characters that will be mentioned on this trip. Several of these people have been blogged about previously. Please allow me to give you a recap of the idiosyncrasies of each of my delightfully colorful co-workers who joined me on this business adventure to Belize:

Applebum is a graduate of THE Ohio State University. She has a tukkus that looks like two Grannysmith apples in a wrestling match. Her short temper and quick wit are the most likely causes of your diarrhea.

Banana Tree is a Belize native, so he played double roles as both company member and tour guide. He has an adorable accent and dark chocolate covered skin. Imagine a raisinet that talks like Shaggy.

Caramel Barbie is exactly as the name denotes with the added bonus of a faux-hawk in the shade of a Strawberry starburst. Like an evergreen tree, Caramel Barbie is ageless.

Shoniqua is my longtime Caucasian friend who's ass clearly thinks she's Black.

Michelin Man is a company veteran. He has been a part of the organization for over 35 years and has grown to be the size of a small meteor. Any time I am need of shade from the sun, I know exactly where to go.

Evangeline has previously been referred to as the naked vegetable stealer. She is currently in a very serious relationship with my room mate whom she met on Match.com.

Charlie Brown, previously referred to as Buckwheat, has recently undergone a pretty amazing physical transformation. While slimming out his midsection, he has managed to maintain his medicine ball ass which could easily double as a coffee table. This is truly a feat I wish I could master.

Earth Mother, like most mothers, has a plethora of talents including but not limit
ed to: doctor, psychiatrist, police woman, therapist, thug, minister, and a comfortable lap to place my head on when I'm feeling down.

Daddy Long Legs, aka Green Bean, is a native of the District of Columbia. He has an adorably round tukkus that sits perched high above his giraffe like stems for legs. If Dallas became infested with Komodo dragons, I would certainly seek out his torso for refuge.

Naomi is a  man for the majority of the time but occasionally will morph into his alter-ego which is reminiscent of a certain super model (and/or Ru Paul). He is my room mate when my company travels. He is an alcoholic. We get along great.

Tuscaloosa, named after the city he is from, even though he claims to be from Atlanta, is a walking dichotomy. He has a wife and child at home yet seems to have these random moments of "queening out" as the kids say. It's like he has Turret's syndrome in the style of Clay Aiken. He has a pillow that looks like a ferret. Need I say more?

B More, also named after the city she is from, truly has an amazing lower body. Her calves are like chocolate tangerines. She also possesses the talent of making her own weaves. Her work is unbeweaveable.

Pilar is the Mexican.

Young Diva is my boss. She is the chocolate version of Vanna White. With a big pearly white smile and highly presentational demeanor, you would really think that she is the sweetest person ever. And she is. However, I always get this feeling that at any moment she is going to cut me with a knife. And I'm not talking about a butter knife. I mean a really sharp one from Williams & Sanoma.

Queen Jemima is my boss's boss; the big cheese! She has the ultimate power to cut off my paycheck at any given moment which why it is imperative that she be happy at every moment. She has an incessant habit of hitting her employees; this usually comes in the form of a back handed slap across the chest or mid thoracic spine (depending on your height). She also has a deep affinity for tracksuits.

           With the introductions out of the way, I can now begin my story which starts out, of course, at the airport. Now, if you have read previous blogs, you are well aware of the fact that I get what is referred to as "flyer's diarrhea" which is an epidemic sweeping across this great nation. There's something about the idea of a ten thousand pound machine floating over the Caribbean sea carrying hundreds of innocent passengers including yours truly that just makes my bowels loosen like Pamela Anderson around a football team. Needless to say, it requires well-timed and copious drinking to fully prepare myself for take off. The flight was departing at 5:30am. I was getting a ride from Young Diva, whom also lives in my building, and she suggested we meet at 3:15am. This was perfect for me. This would leave ample drinking time! I would simply begin my first libation around 7pm and keep the party going for 8 hours until I left! Perfect! I decided to begin with a chocolate martini or two or seven (which of course I prepare in my own home) and I would simply sip on that ho until all my bags were packed. Next, I moved on to three or four delicious cosmopolitans while I emptied the refrigerator of all perishable items that could not fit in the freezer and clearly would not be moldless by the time I returned to America. Lastly, I finished with a simple vodka cranberry cocktail which remained perched next to the bathroom sink while manscaping my pubic region to successfully to adapt to the needs of my newly purchased mankini (ie. a man's bikini). I had several additional mixed beverages on my way out the door with my neon pink suitcase in hand. I met Young Diva in the lobby and she kindly drove the two of us to the airport.

          Although I had some difficulty walking in a straight line once we arrived at the terminal, I did my very best to hold it together in front of Young Diva considering the fact that she is my boss. As I waddled my way into the airport, I managed to pull out my itinerary and insert the encrypted code into the self check-in kiosk. Clearly the Indian attendant standing on the side thought I was retarded (perhaps on account of my incessant staggering) and led me step by step through the process. After I printed my boarding pass, I met up with Applebum and helped her check a bag. She noticed immediately that I was beyond inebriated and began laughing uncontrollably at my unfortunate behaviour which was only about to get worse. I was behind Applebum while going through security. It's always a good idea to be behind her as to get the best view possible of the Grannysmith apples in action. I was quite disappointed to be separated from Applebum when I was directed to a separate line to place all of my belongings on the conveyor belt. I removed my belt, shoes, jacket, wallet, keys, and loose change (everything but my virginity) into the plastic blue bin and proceeded to wait to be called through the metal detector. I noticed, in my state of drunkenness, a small backpack perched upon the person in front of me. On it, there was a name tag that said "Jane". That was all the information I needed to entertain myself. "JANE!" I exclaimed with the up most enthusiasm! The stranger turned around, took one look at me, and without missing a beat said "I don't know you." and turned back around. What a bitch! I couldn't believe that she wouldn't even entertain, not even for a moment at 4 o'clock in the morning, that she might possibly know me. I knew her name for Christ's sake! The only thing that I can conclude to was the obvious fact that she has no thin friends and thus ruled out the possibility of knowing me immediately. I turned to look over at Applebum in the line adjacent to the one I was standing in, only to see her shaking her head in disbelief and shame. She was still laughing, and that's all that mattered. I made my way through, after Jane, into this new strange circular device they now have at airports to determine whether or not you have an AK47 in your vagina. I walked into the contraption, separated my legs like Kim Kardashian in the men's room at the Apollo as the invisible laser beams scanned my body for drugs, guns, and any of Osama bin Laden's offspring. Once they had confirmed that I was not smuggling any salmonella infected Mexican tomatoes into the Caribbean, they let me through. As I made my way towards the gate I was greeted by the rest of the company: Banana Tree, Shoniqua, Evangeline, Michelin Man, Earth Mother, Daddy Long Legs, Pilar, Charlie Brown, B More, Tuscaloosa, and Naomi. Each person more sleepy than next (a theme that develops well into the Belize trip) during the wee hours of the morning. I, however, was in party mode just ready for my next drink! This was exactly where I needed to be, completely aloof of the fact that I was about to board the death ship (my term I use for an airplane).

            As I waited patiently for the McDonald's in the airport to open, the last missing piece of the puzzle showed up. There she was in all her glory, Queen Jemima. My boss arrived to the airport in a black crushed velvet tracksuit completely covered rhinestones with a matching hat. I had to pray to keep from crying. To make matters worse, she emphasizes that as a company we must always be presentable when on business trips EVEN at the airport, and especially on international trips. So there she was, looking like the Grandmother of a Flava Flav contestant, flagged me down to say hello. On previous trips, she has stopped me in the airport to borrow cash from me in an effort to most efficiently purchase her favorite magazine of all time: Black Enterprise. She is in her seventies, so I try very hard to give her the up most respect. She gave me my job after all. But it is very difficult not to laugh at someone who looks like a Christmas present for Ru Paul. Thank God she only stopped me to stay hello. If any further conversation had followed, my cover as a raging alcoholic would have been blown.

           Once the McDonald's opened, pandemonium was about to ensue. You see, Daddy Long Legs and Charlie Brown, have a very abusive relationship with food, especially Charlie Brown. His violent interactions with fast food establishments are worse than a Chris Brown and Rihanna reunion. So when the restaurant did not open at 5am as it had been advertised, Charlie Brown was ready to bust a cap in somebody's ass. When the poor little Mexican cashier at McDonald's said "We open at five" (of course she couldn't pronounce the "v" part of "five"), this sent Charlie Brown into a tailspin of emotions. "WELL IT'S FIVE O FIVE RIGHT NOW!" he said as his head was about to explode. I immediately thought about seeking refuge in a garbage can to avoid the inevitable World War III that was about to take place behind the closed gates of the McDonald's at the International Airport in Dallas, Texas. But in my state of drunkenness I decided that it would be too much work for me to go to the effort of hiding myself. Even if I could successfully conceal my whereabouts inside a trash can, I would surely be discovered by my inevitable hiccups on account of the 8 previous hours of continuous, consistent drinking. Finally the little Mexican (clearly Pilar's relative) opened the gate and served Charlie Brown, Daddy Long Legs, a few other customers, and myself.

           As the time drew closer to departure, I made my way back to the gate. Not too far along did I run into Caramel Barbie who mysteriously had strings hanging from her outfit. Upon closer investigation I discovered that she was wearing a black corset. Here's how the full outfit went down. I'll start at the bottom and work my way up. She wore black shiny boots with a high heel, TIGHT (or "snatched" as the kids say) black pants, a black button dress shirt with pressed collar, black vest with a corset waist, and a black painter's hat to match. I should also mention that the face was slightly painted. I don't think I've ever seen someone look so glamorous at the airport, especially not at the 5 o'clock in the morning! Although, I must say that I have heard rumors that along with being ageless like an evergreen tree that Caramel Barbie also is an insomniac. She barely sleeps. Perhaps this explains the time that she has allotted to fully undergo a fashion transformation for any given event no matter how casual and no matter at what hour.

            Once they finally began boarding the plane, I was truly feeling my 10th alcoholic beverage. It took all of the will I had inside me and also Jesus to make it to my seat. Have you ever had so much to drink that you literally had to FORCE your eyes to stay open wide enough to read something. This coupled with the ridiculously small print written on my boarding pass proved to be quite an effortful scenario with me  making a struggling attempt to properly locate my seat. Thank God I had the wherewithal to tell the Indian attendant when putting in my record locater into the kiosk to place me in a seat as far away from the other members in the company as possible. This lead my drunk ass free to be as inappropriately belligerent as I felt fit. Jane was sitting a few rows ahead of me. "JANE!" I yelled one more time. No response. I sat down and awaited my favorite part of the flying experience (which ironically comes right before the worst part of the flying experience; takeoff!). My ultimate most enjoyable part of flying is of course the flight attendants. These women are like floating synchronized swimmers complete with  Russian Red lipstick and make up so thick it doubles as sunblock. Naturally I was hideously disappointed by the fact that the people at American Airlines geniusly decided that an electronic version of the instructions on how to properly vacate an aircraft was more suitable. I was devastated. There was nothing left to do but to fall asleep. As the engine started  I knew that I needed to be passed out by the time the airplane pointed diagonally towards heaven. I figured this wouldn't prove to be difficult considering that I drank so much alcohol that I practically slipped myself a ruffie. Just as my eyelids began to assemble, I saw, through my blurred vision, a beacon of light. There it was. SKYMALL! There is no way I could have imagined the ridiculous products that were to be advertised in the latest addition of this airborne catalogue. Stay tuned......

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