The writings of Oddpoet

THERE I WAS AT 30,000 FEET

So I am on this air­plane. I hate fly­ing, but, as my des­ti­na­tion would take me 20 years to walk, well, I had no choice. I had to use fake doc­u­ments to get on the plane because I am a wanted man.

So I am bull­shit­ting with one of the stew­ardesses try­ing to get into her pants. Why I want to get into her pants is a mys­tery, because they are at least two sizes larger than I wear. And, for what­ever rea­son, I make up this story how I was a fighter pilot dur­ing the Per­sian Gulf War.

“What kind of plane did you fly?”

Not hav­ing a clue, I respond with the first thing that popped into my head,
“Ehh…one of those real fast ones.”

She gets up and walks away and I silently curse myself and make a men­tal note not to tell sto­ries in which I have no idea what I’m talk­ing about.

I’m bored and start look­ing around for someone’s balls to break. I am a mas­ter ball breaker; I am infa­mous far and wide for this daunt­ing abil­ity. There is this older woman next to me, actu­ally she was prob­a­bly 15 years younger but every­one is older than I, even 15 year olds. Can’t do that to her.

So I’m look­ing around and spot this boy who looks about 8 or 9 and this story pops into my head about the wing eat­ing mon­sters that just hap­pen to live in this area of sky. And it might be a good idea if he kept watch on the left wing and I will do the same on the right wing. Just in case they appear. Shit! Can’t do that either; besides, his Mom looked like she could kick my ass; the last thing I need in my pathetic exis­tence is to lose a fight to a woman.

I am com­pelled to amuse myself; which is bad news, because it only gets me into trou­ble. I start think­ing about mass mur­der­ers, not the John Wayne Gacy, Ted Bundy types but the Crème de La Crème of mass mur­der­ers Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot. So I zero in on Pol Pot and won­dered how does a mon­ster (no way a man) wake up one morn­ing and decide to empty all the cities in Cam­bo­dia in order to cre­ate a Utopian agrar­ian soci­ety. Did the idea just pop into his head or was it some­thing he was work­ing on over the years? Sorta like his doc­tor­ate the­sis com­ing together?

I read Thomas More’s Utopia and quite sure it didn’t include killing over two mil­lion peo­ple. Besides, the arm strength alone required to off so many peo­ple is a Her­culean feat in itself. Back when I was killing a whole bunch of peo­ple the high­est I got up to was between 150/175 and I had to take a few days off.

All of a sud­den “whoosh” the plane drops about one thou­sand feet in less then a sec­ond. It starts veer­ing left then right and every­one is scream­ing “We’re going to die!” That always pisses me off because you are going to die the ques­tion becomes will it be now! I got to hand it to men they are not scream­ers, women on the other hand can scream at the drop of a hat, Shit, they scream when they get engaged.

The stew­ardess is giv­ing her fake “every­thing is cool” smile and makes her ways to the cabin, knocks on the door and enters. She comes out five sec­onds later and her face is white as a ghost and her eyes are the size of sil­ver dol­lars. Shock, I rec­og­nize it imme­di­ately. She makes a Bee line to me and since she is in shock, she thinks she is whis­per­ing but she is actu­ally scream­ing into my ear, “THE PILOTS ARE DEAD, THERE IS NO ONE TO FLY THE PLANE, CAN YOU?” The women start scream­ing again.

I’m annoyed and won­der­ing why she is lay­ing this hubris on me. Then I remem­ber that stu­pid fighter pilot story. I look around the plane and all eyes are on me. I feel like break­ing out into laugh­ter and say­ing “you frig­gers are dead, man” But the lit­tle boy’s eyes catch mine and it breaks my heart. So, I men­tally sigh and stand up and address the people.

Now, being a hero is totally alien to my char­ac­ter. I hate it, it’s not me. Absurdly, I recall the deep sea fish­ing trip I was on some years back, rough seas and three quar­ter of my buds have their heads over the side vom­it­ing uncon­trol­lably. What do I do? Of course I and another bud look at each other and we start cut­ting the heads off some fishes, stick them in our mouths and shove our faces in front of our dying, vom­it­ing friends. That is who I am.

Shit! “Fear not fel­low sojourn­ers, I shall take the helm of this winged char­iot and guide us safely back to mother Gaia’s arms.” Not a bad speech, how­ever, the entire plane starts scream­ing even the men this time and I rec­og­nize my mis­take. “What I mean is that I was a fighter pilot and I can fly this sucker.” The peo­ple break into cheers. They start slap­ping me on the back as I head towards the cock­pit. I have an annoyed fake smile on my face but I am doing it for the kid and I fig­ure false hope is bet­ter then no hope at all.

I enter the cock­pit and Wow!!! Blood every­where! I look around for Freddy Kruger, Michael Mey­ers or that Jason dude. Such hor­ror! The stew­ardess hands me a note. My head wraps around absur­dity fairly eas­ily, it defines my exis­tence. This was tough. Appar­ently the pilot and co-pilot were homo­sex­ual lovers who decided to exe­cute a mutual sui­cide pack. Of course, air­port secu­rity being what it is, they couldn’t bring sharp weapons on board; so they pecked them­selves to death with those tooth­picks with the cheap umbrel­las on it. The kind you pay $30.00 a drink for in the islands. Who could make this up?

I am torn between admi­ra­tion and sheer hor­ror. I esti­mate it took between 10,000 and 15,000 pecks to pro­duce this much dam­age. They had to be at it for at least three hours. I shut­tered. I’m not anti-suicide, it is a per­sonal deci­sion, how­ever, when you involve one hun­dred and sev­enty five other peo­ple, well, it is beyond rude, I grab the bod­ies and toss them aside. I sit down at the near­est seat. “Don’t you think you should sit at the captain’s seat?” I look at the stew­ardess like she has two heads. “Can you really bring us safely home?”

She is annoy­ing me so I tell her the truth. “I know I can bring us down, it is the safely part that I am not feel­ing warm and fuzzy about.” She faints and drops like a sack of pota­toes. Good Rid­dance! She was a pain in the ass.

I sit down at the captain’s seat and sur­vey the instru­ment panel. I do not panic in emer­gen­cies, I am seri­ous. I guess my life has been one emer­gency after another. Cer­tain death? Been there!
So I fig­ure if two ass­holes that peck them­selves to death with umbrella tooth­picks can fly, why can’t I.. I curse engi­neers because there are entirely too many switches and gauges on the panel. Should be only about six, take off, fly and land and a cou­ple gages for wind speed and alti­tude but that is it..

Stu­pidly I think about the Odd­poet the­o­rem, which states that every­one is an ass­hole, it is just a mat­ter of degree. The so called pro­fes­sional types, the engi­neers, doc­tors, lawyers, judges? I have absolutely no respect for them. Why peo­ple hold them with such regard is a mys­tery to me.

The air­plane is veer­ing right and then left so I try to get it some­what straight care­ful not to over­com­pen­sate. Dam, it worked. We are fly­ing more than less true. I spot some head­phones and say cool! Catch some tunes , maybe some W.I.M. or “The End” by the doors, appro­pri­ate! I hear pan­icked voices on the other end. A radio! Shit, things are look­ing up.

I do not know air­plane radio speak but I do know a smat­ter­ing of that red­neck, CB talk which was the craze in the 1970’s. So I say what I know. “Breaker, breaker, one nine, what’s your twenty? Ten-four good buddy, I’m lay­ing the ham­mer down.”
I hear on the other end.
“Who is this ass­hole!
Nor­mally I would skewer the frig but I have big­ger fish to fry.
‘This is the ass­hole sit­ting in the cap­tains chair, dick!”
“What hap­pened to the pilots?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Ter­ror­ist attack?”
“Tech­ni­cally no, looks like a mutual sui­cide”
“That is rude!”
“No shit!”

“Do you have any fly­ing expe­ri­ence?”
“I did have the Microsoft flight sim­u­la­tor but I threw it out the win­dows after I crashed on take­off sixty con­sec­u­tive times.”
“This is not good.”

“Lis­ten, is there an auto-pilot here I am try­ing to sta­bi­lize the plane.”
“Yea, hold on.”
I can hear muf­fled voices on the other end of the radio.
“Okay, it is on the left hand side, halfway down the panel.”

I’m look­ing all over and I can’t find the sucker.
“Can’t find the frig­ger, how is it labeled?”
More muf­fled voices…
“It is labeled CPZ271.”
Of course!

I find it and flip the sucker, Sure enough, I hear a hiss­ing sound to my left and a blowup doll inflates in the co-pilot’s chair.
“You got to be shit­ting me.” I lose it for a few sec­onds.
“Yea, just like the movie.”

The plane sta­bi­lizes and he walks me through punch­ing some co-ordinates for the loca­tion of the near­est air­port.
The plane accel­er­ates briefly and exe­cutes a turn. Shit this is cake. Okay,
“The auto pilot has this under con­trol I’m going to get drunk.”
It was rhetor­i­cal, but I heard an “Ehhh” on the other end. I wasn’t in the mood for an Ehhh…

“What?”

“The auto pilot can not land the plane, it has to be done manually.”

I’m hav­ing a real bad day and it’s get­ting worse.

“Are you frig­gin kid­ding me?”
“Don’t you feel that land­ing is the sin­gle most impor­tant aspect of this fly­ing busi­ness.”
I’m really pissed.
“Oth­er­wise, why don’t we just tie rock­ets to our asses and hope for the best!”

“We’re work­ing on that.” Was the sheep­ish reply.

Then the radio went out.

Some­times you just have to hang it up. It’s sim­ply good­night Irene time. I slam the head­phones to the deck, Dick­weed wakes up from her faint.
“Where are we?”
I look at her in dis­gust and tell her to fetch me as many bot­tles of vodka she can get her hands on.
“Why?”
I give her the look and she hur­ries out the cabin and returns with a hand­ful of those small air­plane bot­tles. I down three of them and I light a cig­a­rette and put my feet up on the con­sole. I’m going out with atti­tude; styling to the very end.

“You can’t smoke here!”
“As your cap­tain I hereby sus­pend all rules and reg­u­la­tions, do you want to have sex?”

I can see the dumb bitch was actu­ally think­ing about it.

Could have been the vodka and the cig­a­rette but I start root­ing around the cabin for some book or check­list. I find a weather report and briefly think about mak­ing an announce­ment, “This is your cap­tain, it will be sunny and 79 degrees in Los Ange­les when we meet our fiery deaths, drinks are on the house.” I try the radio set and again…nothing.

And then… there it was, under the flight panel, pro­trud­ing slightly, “fly­ing for dum­mies”
I ignored the ram­i­fi­ca­tions of such a book on an airplane.

I will not bore you with the details but with the help of the book I was able to get us within strik­ing dis­tance of the air­port. I could smell blood. I said good­bye to the auto pilot, and lower the flaps and land­ing gear. Too fast., I decreased speed and brought us lower, inch­ing closer to that sacred place called earth. The things we take for granted, walk­ing along a beach so sim­ple yet, how sweet it seemed now.

I could see the earth about 40 feet below. Too fast! It was balls to the wall time. I cut the power com­pletely, we drop and bounce up, down, up. Each impact accom­pa­nied by the screams from the pas­sen­ger sec­tion. Frig them! We finally stay on the ground. But, I am strug­gling to keep the sucker from veer­ing off the run­way. I hit the reverse thrust, the only switch prop­erly labeled. The engines roared to life and we come to a stop.

I allow my self a brief self sat­is­fied smile and reminded myself what a bad ass Mo Fo I am. I hear the screams of joy from the cabin and I’m glad the boy will live another day. The rest? They will die in their own time.

“We did it! We did it!” Dick­weed is alter­nat­ing between hug­ging me and doing that stu­pid sur­vivor dance peo­ple do when they escape cer­tain death.
I stared at her in amaze­ment. “Yea, we did.”
“At the press con­fer­ence I will make sure you get credit for what you did.”
“Very kind of you Hon, you were an inspi­ra­tion through­out the crises.”
“You really think so?”
“No, but let’s make like sheep and get the flock out of here.”

I had to rip her makeup thingy out of her hands and push her out the cock­pit.. And peo­ple won­der why I hate peo­ple.
I open another bot­tle and down it. I lit another smoke and took four deep hits., died it out, put my base­ball cap on, avi­a­tor shades, grabbed my carry on and I split..

It wasn’t hard to get lost in all the con­fu­sion. I was a wanted man. I couldn’t afford to be con­grat­u­lated just before they threw me in the joint. I got out of the air­port and took a cab to a seedy sec­tion of town, A place where the wanted and unwanted live. Home! I found a cheap motel and got a room.

I broke into the liquor cab­i­net, it didn’t mat­ter, I wasn’t pay­ing for it any­way. I was no longer who I use to be. I was a series of fake id’s and stolen credit cards. If I wanted some­thing I took it! Only ass­holes asked, the law taught me that.

I took a drink and lit a smoke and I planned my next bank job.

Boyle’s law made an appear­ance at the Love Parade and 21 peo­ple died. Ignore the irony and let’s con­cen­trate on the sheep and cat­tle that were respon­si­ble for the deaths.

As a result of the fatal­i­ties Human­ity is doing what it does best, play­ing the blame game. Let’s see who can we blame? Yea, the Mayor and the Police, yea that’s it, it’s their fault. But wait a sec­ond the mayor was eat­ing Wiener­schnitzel when it hap­pened and the Police closed it off and tried to pre­vent peo­ple from enter­ing the grounds. Hmm… “We don’t care it’s their fault.” Ain’t life nice? All wrapped up in a nice pack­age. Fuck­ing jerk offs!

Of course the cul­prits respon­si­ble were the peo­ple there, yea the Douche bags who kept on pil­ing into the tun­nel despite being told it was closed. Hap­pens all the time, peo­ple kill each other by crush­ing them, step­ping on there heads, after knock­ing them over; body slam­ming some­one in your way is very pop­u­lar in crowds. Hap­pened in Wal-Mart last Christ­mas, peo­ple were mur­dered by half price cab­bage patch doll sales. Peo­ple dis­gust me and I hate them.

My guess is there are mother fuck­ers alive right now who actu­ally knocked some chick over to escape the crush and stepped on her head fol­lowed by a bunch of other weak willed mother fuck­ers. Do you think they are turn­ing them­selves in? Admit­ting respon­si­bil­ity? No, they are point­ing fin­gers at the Mayor and Police.

That’s the truth there are scores of mur­der­ers on the loose in Ger­many as I write this. Peo­ple who delib­er­ately stepped on and crushed another human being to death. It’s why I NEVER go to Sport­ing events, music fes­ti­vals or any place where a con­glom­er­a­tion of peo­ple like you go. I don’t trust you peo­ple, I don’t. Peo­ple are cat­tle and when in a group they behave like them. Bunch of fuck­ing ani­mals. When peo­ple in the front who had no where to go turned around and pleaded with the peo­ple behind them to stop push­ing you can bet there were cock­suck­ers snap­ping open a can of beer laugh­ing their asses off and push­ing and push­ing and push­ing. Most prob­a­bly metal heads, I fuck­ing hate metal heads, they should all die. If it were just metal heads who died I would call it a good day, but unfor­tu­nately they were the inno­cent. The inno­cent always die and the douche bags live, not sure why that is except that I think God is a metal head. I hate him too.

Don’t doubt me for a sec­ond it hap­pened just like that.

So, all you Ger­man fucks please know there are mur­der­ers in your midst walk­ing around free as birds and if you find out who they are? Put their heads in vices till their eyes pop out. And if you have a prob­lem doing that? Call me. But make sure they’re metal heads.