Let me just say that it's no fucking wonder why Delta is on the verge of bankruptcy. 1.5 meals with no free wine on a 10 hour flight is not my idea of service. The plane hadn't even been retrofitted with those nifty headrest TVs. And when the cost of alcohol is not adjusted for various currencies, it tends to piss me off. Four dollars DOES NOT equal four Euros, you greedy, grasping little fucks.
Add to that the eternal joy to be found in a 15 minute late arrival, watching one cart of the flight's luggage arrive, waiting twenty minutes for your bag to be unloaded so that you may proceed through customs to recheck your bag domestically, and then sprinting to the other fucking end of the airport so that you can make your connecting flight with literally 3 minutes to spare and you have a
I'm not even going to describe my infinite loathing for the Department of Homeland Security posters at border control.
Dear readers, I am suffering severe reverse culture shock. I have no one with whom I may exchange the dulcet tones of Ma vai a farti fottere coglione and this keyboard is really fucking me off. Dallas is neigh unrecognisable and the portions of food make me ponder the origins of our national stereotype as a nation of lardasses.
But I am consuming my weight in Mexican food and Dr.Pepper and many many hijinks with the younger sisters will ensue shortly. Especially considering the requisite family get-togethers that will necessitate not only a hip flask, but a thigh, ankle, and cleavage flasks.
If I can conquer the jet lag things would be peachy.
And with that grammatical abortion of a phrase I leave you to play full contact bowling. Quit while I'm ahead so to speak.