Kill Me Now

I can never sleep on a plane and it makes me want to bite everyone who can, which is most people. Thirty minutes into any flight nine-tenths of the passengers are out cold, their heads back or tucked over to one side or chins resting on those little foam doughnuts. Even 7  hours into a night flight I’m still staring at the label on my pretzel sticks and going over the safety literature and who are they kidding with that stuff anyway? That In-case-of-an-emergency-landing-your-seat-cushion-becomes-a flotation-device baloney? They straight-out admit that your life jacket might not inflate in which case how are you going to bob along in balmy waters before being welcomed ashore by handsome natives in skimpy loin cloths? They should just tell the truth: if the plane goes down, chances are it will be over the hard-packed earth which will act on your body as a Cuisinart acts on a tomato. And if you go down over water it'll be in a place like the North Sea and Kate Winslett will be faintly calling your name as, shivering, with icicles in your hair, you sink away into the depths.

All I can say is next time I come to Europe I’m taking an Ambien, a Tylenol PM AND a shot of the velvet hammer that is Nyquil.