Blame it on the a-a-a-a-alcohol

My travels back to Virginia proved to be the perfect representation of my home state. The closer to arriving, the more brazen its character became.

At the airport in Boston, I quickly compromised my morals (for financial gain, naturally). Now to those who might be shocked at the very possibility that I possess morals, I must first say: JERKS! And second, frankly say: I too am occasionally surprised for I tend to forget about those slight details. Nevertheless, it turned out to be an advantage that did not go with out shame. I place the blame on, not my denial-crazed self of course, but on my exponentially growing frugal nature, which needless to say blames the economy! That’s how the dice roll in blame game…

Once I made my way through Security (luckily being culturally hazardous to society is no need for alarm), I took a seat at my terminal. Despite empty seats everywhere, a guy wearing a fitted hat and crisp white sneakers sat next to me bringing with him a thick atmosphere of cheap cologne. His luggage invaded my personal space and his boxers protruded out of the top of his dangling jeans. Enough said. I gave heavy side-eye but it was lost in the Axe-polluted smog. I worried the douchebag smell would stick to me causing hypocrisy and reinforcement that I am in fact a douche!! I couldn’t risk catching the disease so I moved seats.

After boarding the plane, I noticed the seat to my left was empty. As each passenger shuffled down the isle, I remained cautious yet expressively honest with my reaction until they passed my row. A woman carrying a grumpy child stepped on the plane… NOOOO!!! Nothing is worse. She continued to the back of the plane. Behind her, an old man wearing a medical mask and gloves inspected the row numbers with confusion. Swine flu or paranoia?!?! The difference is paramount! He settled in two rows back from me. Finally a portly man, whose potbelly lost tragically in a battle with gravity, aggressively waddled to the seat next to me and threw his body weight down. His Harley Davidson jacket accentuated his business in the front, party in the back hairstyle and his dirt-stained t-shirt that conservatively needed another two inches of fabric in length.

I flipped through the channels and settled on an episode of Family Guy. The red-neck (literally!) beast showed no restraint when heartily commenting on what I was watching, despite having his own screen. I quickly switched to CNN; he fell taciturn. The selection of drinks did not satisfy him, so he ordered a Bud Light. I half expected him to shotgun the beer, and he did, only in a more socially modest manner (if such a thing exists). The unconventional in-flight entertainment continued after he finished the beer; he knocked something off his tray onto my foot. When I tried to pick up whatever fell, he grumbled, “It’s just ice.” Ohhh ok, no problem! He then discovered the radio wherein the power of country music overtook him, as it does to the hillbilly demographic. When it got to be too much banjo rhythm to hold back, he wailed and hollered inebriated lyrics. Everyone but him seemed to mind. Typical, Virginia, typical…