Among the list of things I never want to experience again, getting stuck in an airport overnight is damn near the top. It’s right below pregnancy, which is just above having my brain surrounded by a fortress of mucus. This is what happened a couple of weeks ago when I was stranded at the airport due to inclement weather.
Weather wasn’t the reason I had to spend the night sick in the airport. It was American Airlines’ poor customer service. You see, when flights are delayed due to weather, it’s considered an “act of God” and therefore not the airline’s problem. However, when the gate attendant updates the departure in increments of an hour at a time until the flight crew is no longer viable, “timed-out” as they called it, the flight must then be cancelled. That certainly is not an act of God but one of poor planning. The Devil’s in the details, don’t ya know.
Pushing back the departure time for hours then cancelling the flight altogether at 2a.m. when there are no rental cars and no hotel rooms is ludicrous. Of course, they “know we have a choice when flying” and so thanked us for our business with an invitation to take a spot on the floor next to any stranger and make ourselves comfortable.
All that to say, I missed the last few Friday Fictioneers because it seems there is no end to the number of people who have no problem wasting my time, but I’ll save that rant for another day. Suffice to say incompetence abounds through space and time in workplaces everywhere.
Another Never Ending Story
In the vast expanse of the universe, there are large pockets of time. In one of them, there was once an enormous pocket watch. One day, or was it night? Yes, night, a dark and stormy night, and on that treacherous night, lightning streaked and thunder rolled for what seemed like an eternity. Then CRACK! The chain snapped and the pocket watch fell to earth. A thousand days and nights had come and gone without so much as a tic toc, but ever since that epic moment of impact, time wasters have roamed the earth without a minute to spare.
Thanks for reading. More Friday Fictioneers are here. Thanks to Jennifer Pendergast for this week’s prompt and Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, who has a thing or two to say about time.
Last week, Mr. Petruska, a modern man of letters @ Mark My Words, challenged me to mix things up and write a letter to my future self. So, I did.
Dear Chancellor HonieBriggs,
Please allow me to express my gratitude for your visit. I know it was a stretch, what with time travel being so inconvenient this close to finalizing the Pepsi Center Peace Accord. You’ll be pleased to know I’ve begun implementing your seven steps to awesomeness, but something about that Kardashian domestic bliss initiative didn’t sound quite right. Were you serious? You know it can be hard to tell when you’re trying to be funny.
Thanks again for the heads up on the Lohan addiction treatment kiosks – good to know my Dorito habit causes no permanent damage. Whew! Can’t wait to get that monkey off my back. Who knew Chianti Classico becomes like mother’s milk to me? By the way, did I hear you tell my loyal follower we need to stop eating shellfish or stop being selfish?
I know you said printable clothing never really catches on, but I think I’ll save up for that 3D printer anyway. You know, just in case. After all, you are wrong from time to time. As you were leaving, I couldn’t quite make out what you were shouting back at me. Did you say avoid suspicion, fly naked or poor vision, try Lasik?
Maybe I do need to go ahead and get that miracle ear.
Believe the hype. It’s all that and a truck load of party size bags of Doritos. When your post hits that top-tier of the WordPress.com homepage, angels begin to sing, you cannot avert your eyes from its radiant glow. Just before your retinas become permanently damaged, you realize people are reading your post, and liking it, even commenting. So, you turn your attention to the commenters and that’s when the party begins.
It’s like a rave actually with Tiësto as the DJ. Then a parade of magical butterflies leads you over a swinging bridge to a carnival where Brad Pitt is handing out free snack cakes and you don’t have to stand in line for the bathroom or unicorn rides because there are thousands of them. (unicorns not bathrooms.)
All is right with that fantastic world, but you toggle back to the home page to be sure your post is still there. As you begin to see your post slip slowly down the Freshly Pressed page, a chill makes you click back to your post and lean into the warmth of friendly gravitars. Maybe even clicking some of them to see where they take you.
And now your back. You might feel like you need a shower.
What’s this? No new likes in over an hour? Where have all the commenters gone? Didn’t they like the music? It’s Oingo Boingo for goddsakes! And that’s when it hits you, the party’s almost over. You wrap a blanket around your legs that have fallen asleep because you can’t force yourself to get up and turn out the lights. Hope lingers a little longer that another reader will show up and rekindle the comment section.
Somewhere in the distance a baby cries; no it’s your ego. Fifteen minutes of fame is reduced to five in the digital world. Love’s labors lost in the ethos, only a shaft of light remains from your fleeting glimpse into the heaven occupied by demigods and popular blogs. Sadness settles over the landscape as your Freshly Pressed masterpiece drifts off into the digital sunset.
Fret not! Faint heart never won fair followers. Be brave; as Bill and Ted would say…
“BLOG ON DUDE!”
Yeah, getting Freshly Pressed is a party all right. One I seriously needed and I am immensely grateful for after last week bitch-slapped me so hard that I’m already in 2013.
I can confirm there are still pinheads on TV and people still idolizing them. No states actually seceded from the union. The general didn’t get busted down to a private for his private life becoming general knowledge, but there is a rumor of a tell-all on a new 24 hour news channel called I Own Everything, Even The News. (I’ll let you guess who owns it.) Oh, and there may be a Ho Ho deal in the works with a small contingent of disgruntled sandwich artists looking to get in on the ground floor of the snack cake business, but there’s talk they may have to move to Mexico to do it.
That’s all I am willing to divulge about the future, lest I get slapped back and have to repeat ninth grade. I just won’t risk it. So, here’s some original poetry instead.
who would have guessedi’d get freshly pressedbecause i confessedat first it was thrillingmy inbox was fillingmy fingers were willing, but my shoulders began to achemy loyal follower (what a sweetheart you were)rubbed them with all of his mightthen he caressed metried to undress me….
oh, got a little side tracked there, um
getting freshly pressedfor something you confessedcan help you get undressed….no wait, that’s not rightit’s fun while it lastsit goes really fastcan be quite a blastnow that it’s passedi’ll get off my assI’ve got more writing to do!!!
THANK YOU~THANK YOU~THANK YOU
Here’s the extra unvarnished truth about my post:
There is no denying I felt a rush of terrific excitement when I received notification that Confessions of a Constant Commenter was going to be Freshly Pressed. Shock and disbelief first, then terrific excitement. I created a new dance. Then I got busy cleaning up the place, swept out the sidebar and fluffed the header. If you have read much of my writing, you know how meticulous I am about housekeeping; especially with company on the way.
What a nice way to get over a crappy week, people stopping by with accolades and appreciation. There were the usual friendly greetings and support from those bloggers I’ve come to know and respect. Those for whom I would rather censor my rant than ever become an unwelcome guest on their blogs.
Imagine my surprise how few of my new visitors noticed the first paragraph was a dead give away that I do not have an issue speaking my mind.
“You know that I freely share my skepticism observations of the bullshit nonsense I read in the news.”
Or that the second paragraph held a clue those who loaded their comments with hyper-links chose to overlook.
“Blogs I follow are creative, artistic, and as far as can tell, written by decent, thoughtful people who are similar to me in some way…”
Or that the comments I chose to refrain from tatting up other people’s blogs with ARE RIGHT HERE IN THIS POST for good reason. BECAUSE….I decided that the exceptional writing of [other blogger’s] posts deserved more than my smart-ass remark.
AND …nobody cares if it repulses [me] to see snatching, clawing, hoarding freaks who spend money they don’t have on shit they don’t need so they can impress people who couldn’t care less about them. People who then turn around and donate their worn out, used up crap to charity so they can feel better about their materialistic selves.
I did comment on Fear No Weebles BECAUSE I KNOW…. just how damaging that bitch, the self-talk,can be.
I was disappointed that no Oingo Boingo fans stopped by, but hey we can’t get everything we want all at once. That would spoil us! Thank you for reading, commenting, following.
Not completely satisfied? You’re only one click away from someplace better.