Post by Rainbow Blight on Sept 14, 2005 3:00:12 GMT -5
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
An Intense Flight, Not Fancy[/size]
And what an intense flight it was. Intense for me especially seeing as the amount of controversial items I was taking on the trip with me was astounding; I took more controlled substances on the trip than a shark has teeth.
Over 1000 high-class cigarettes
Almost a hundred dollars worth of contraband Cuban cigars (Romeo y Juliet brand)
A one-liter bottle of Stolichnaya vodka
A 750 mL bottle of fine Egyptian Araq
Dozens of pirated CD-ROMS
A 100GB portable hard drive full of illegal pornography and pirated movies/music
And the crowning achievement, a suitcase full of drugs
1. Over 150 pills of Carbomazepine
2. 120 pills of Sertraline
3. 30 pills of Zaleplon
4. 60 pills of Bromazepam
5. 25 pills of Oxycodone
Had I been discovered would I have been royally fucked in a way that not even the likes of Gauge or Miko Lee have seen? Oh, yes. I wouldn't have simply endured the fucking of a century; this fucking of the royal orientation would have included facials, sodomy, gangrape by numerous African American males of the homosexual persuation, and goddamn bukkake. Needless to say I was terrified to the point of nausea as I got of the plane from London into the realm of Chicago.
I had concocted an elaborate and daring plan, however, so as not to get searched. It was a plan created within mere minutes, but it proved to be extremely effective. You see, my checked baggage was due to be searched shortly following my arrival in Chicago. Fortunately for me, the searching table and the conveyor belts that would take my suitcases to my plane were in the same goddamn room! I couldn't believe my tremendous luck, as I put my plan into action.
I completely avoided the counter on which the bags were being searched, and instead proceeded directly to the conveyor belts.
"Have you had your bags searched," the aging, decrepit man operating the conveyor belts asked me, "or do you still need to have them opened?"
Of course, I replied in the most non-suspicious of voices, "Sure, I just got them checked right over there," as I pointed towards the counter on which my bags had indeed not been checked. I then asked the man if I should stay here and watch my bags be loaded onto the conveyor belt, but he told me that he would make sure that my bags made it and I should simply proceed to the waiting lounge.
I hastily made my getaway, as I observed out of the corner of my eye my two drug-laden suitcases get loaded onto the conveyor belt. My plan was a success!
With several hours to spare at the Chicago O'Hare Airport, I simply strolled around for the rest of the time; all over the place I observed signs, both stationary and moving, advertising for what was billed as "the greatest musical in the history of Chicago" : Wicked. I was immensely disappointed as I realized that my stay in Chicago would last all but a few hours more; not nearly enough time to go to the theater to watch the performance of Wicked. So instead, I bought the dramatic novelization.
Prior to my arrival in Chicago, I had been drinking extensively on the planes from Abu Dhabi to London and London to Chicago. So much that over half my bottle of Stolichnaya was depleted. I don't think I was conscious throughout the better part of each of those flights. Waking up upon arrival at London Heathrow Airport, I was informed by the cabin crew that I had been rendered comatose and that they hoped I would be fine once we landed. I was. The coma was unremarkable, really; I'm sure I experienced some trippy Terri Schiavo-esque shit, but unfortunately my memory of that flight is blurry at best and absent at second-best. There is no worst.
Things to Do in Ohio when You're Filthy Motherfucking Rich[/size]
Surprisingly, there isn't much. I've been confined to my hotel room for much of my stay so far, surviving on watching CSI Miami and Without a Trace, and listening to the beautiful sounds eminating from Courtney Love's Hole. A small nuclear explosion of shit and parts of my rectum nearly occurred within the bowels known as "my pants" once I realized that the goddamn hotel TV seemed to lack the Showtime Channel, which meant no Dead Like Me for me.
On the upside, I've been ordering Papa John's pizza every day and have limited myself to one meal a day, in a vain effort to remind myself of home. On the downside, one of the few negative side effects of heavy sedatives such as bromazepam is that it is something of an appetite supressant, not in the sense that it actually makes you not hungry, but rather, in the sense that it prevents you from enjoying any food you put into your mouth; everything tastes like goddamn cardboard.
I took a trip to the university to get my university identification card, goddamn was that a hassle. 20 minutes from the Holiday Inn to the university office. "Oh, sorry, you need your passport to get your ID." Goddamn. Now it seemed that I had to make the journey again; I'd have to get back to the hotel, get my passport, and return to the university office. It was 4:30. The office closed at 5:00. This was going to be very close.
Quickly, I raced back across the paths, past the stadium and past the various parking lots where the military and the ROTC were carrying out routine exercises. For a man out of shape and with a serious case of asthma, this wasn't a simple feat. Nevertheless, I managed to arrive back at the hotel, and it was almost 4:45. Fifteen minutes. Things were not looking good. By the time I passed the stadium again, this run around passport in hand, I had less than ten minutes. Almost out of breath. Sweating profusely. Things were looking exponentially worse.
Over five minutes later, it was 4:59PM and I raced into the university office to pick up my ID card. I was hyperventilating. Perspiring. Annoyed. The men inside asked me to sit down on a chair to have my picture taken. And voila! My ID card was immediately ready, at last.
On a sidenote, my hair was beyond motherfucking appalling.
An Intense Flight, Not Fancy[/size]
And what an intense flight it was. Intense for me especially seeing as the amount of controversial items I was taking on the trip with me was astounding; I took more controlled substances on the trip than a shark has teeth.
Over 1000 high-class cigarettes
Almost a hundred dollars worth of contraband Cuban cigars (Romeo y Juliet brand)
A one-liter bottle of Stolichnaya vodka
A 750 mL bottle of fine Egyptian Araq
Dozens of pirated CD-ROMS
A 100GB portable hard drive full of illegal pornography and pirated movies/music
And the crowning achievement, a suitcase full of drugs
1. Over 150 pills of Carbomazepine
2. 120 pills of Sertraline
3. 30 pills of Zaleplon
4. 60 pills of Bromazepam
5. 25 pills of Oxycodone
Had I been discovered would I have been royally fucked in a way that not even the likes of Gauge or Miko Lee have seen? Oh, yes. I wouldn't have simply endured the fucking of a century; this fucking of the royal orientation would have included facials, sodomy, gangrape by numerous African American males of the homosexual persuation, and goddamn bukkake. Needless to say I was terrified to the point of nausea as I got of the plane from London into the realm of Chicago.
I had concocted an elaborate and daring plan, however, so as not to get searched. It was a plan created within mere minutes, but it proved to be extremely effective. You see, my checked baggage was due to be searched shortly following my arrival in Chicago. Fortunately for me, the searching table and the conveyor belts that would take my suitcases to my plane were in the same goddamn room! I couldn't believe my tremendous luck, as I put my plan into action.
I completely avoided the counter on which the bags were being searched, and instead proceeded directly to the conveyor belts.
"Have you had your bags searched," the aging, decrepit man operating the conveyor belts asked me, "or do you still need to have them opened?"
Of course, I replied in the most non-suspicious of voices, "Sure, I just got them checked right over there," as I pointed towards the counter on which my bags had indeed not been checked. I then asked the man if I should stay here and watch my bags be loaded onto the conveyor belt, but he told me that he would make sure that my bags made it and I should simply proceed to the waiting lounge.
I hastily made my getaway, as I observed out of the corner of my eye my two drug-laden suitcases get loaded onto the conveyor belt. My plan was a success!
With several hours to spare at the Chicago O'Hare Airport, I simply strolled around for the rest of the time; all over the place I observed signs, both stationary and moving, advertising for what was billed as "the greatest musical in the history of Chicago" : Wicked. I was immensely disappointed as I realized that my stay in Chicago would last all but a few hours more; not nearly enough time to go to the theater to watch the performance of Wicked. So instead, I bought the dramatic novelization.
Prior to my arrival in Chicago, I had been drinking extensively on the planes from Abu Dhabi to London and London to Chicago. So much that over half my bottle of Stolichnaya was depleted. I don't think I was conscious throughout the better part of each of those flights. Waking up upon arrival at London Heathrow Airport, I was informed by the cabin crew that I had been rendered comatose and that they hoped I would be fine once we landed. I was. The coma was unremarkable, really; I'm sure I experienced some trippy Terri Schiavo-esque shit, but unfortunately my memory of that flight is blurry at best and absent at second-best. There is no worst.
Things to Do in Ohio when You're Filthy Motherfucking Rich[/size]
Surprisingly, there isn't much. I've been confined to my hotel room for much of my stay so far, surviving on watching CSI Miami and Without a Trace, and listening to the beautiful sounds eminating from Courtney Love's Hole. A small nuclear explosion of shit and parts of my rectum nearly occurred within the bowels known as "my pants" once I realized that the goddamn hotel TV seemed to lack the Showtime Channel, which meant no Dead Like Me for me.
On the upside, I've been ordering Papa John's pizza every day and have limited myself to one meal a day, in a vain effort to remind myself of home. On the downside, one of the few negative side effects of heavy sedatives such as bromazepam is that it is something of an appetite supressant, not in the sense that it actually makes you not hungry, but rather, in the sense that it prevents you from enjoying any food you put into your mouth; everything tastes like goddamn cardboard.
I took a trip to the university to get my university identification card, goddamn was that a hassle. 20 minutes from the Holiday Inn to the university office. "Oh, sorry, you need your passport to get your ID." Goddamn. Now it seemed that I had to make the journey again; I'd have to get back to the hotel, get my passport, and return to the university office. It was 4:30. The office closed at 5:00. This was going to be very close.
Quickly, I raced back across the paths, past the stadium and past the various parking lots where the military and the ROTC were carrying out routine exercises. For a man out of shape and with a serious case of asthma, this wasn't a simple feat. Nevertheless, I managed to arrive back at the hotel, and it was almost 4:45. Fifteen minutes. Things were not looking good. By the time I passed the stadium again, this run around passport in hand, I had less than ten minutes. Almost out of breath. Sweating profusely. Things were looking exponentially worse.
Over five minutes later, it was 4:59PM and I raced into the university office to pick up my ID card. I was hyperventilating. Perspiring. Annoyed. The men inside asked me to sit down on a chair to have my picture taken. And voila! My ID card was immediately ready, at last.
On a sidenote, my hair was beyond motherfucking appalling.
