*warning*  This is a long one, and most likely boring.  That's because I'm bored.  I'm stuck visiting my parents, who live in the middle of nowhere, and I have nothing better to do except recount my flight to get here yesterday.

I missed my flight by three minutes last night.  Three.  Fucking.  Minutes. 

My flight was supposed to depart at 5:52 last night, and I left my house a 4:30.  Considering that I live 15 minutes away from the airport, that's plenty of time, right?  That gives me an hour to walk to my gate and maybe stop and check out a newspaper or book.

Soon as I leave my house I'm instantly screwed by a car accident on East Boulevard.  I have to sit in the same spot for about twenty minutes.  I start to worry a little, but it's still no big deal since I know where to park and where my gate is.  I figure I still have plenty of time.

I get to Douglas International at a little after 5:00 and park.  I start walking into the terminal and I reach in my pocket to get my ID so I can pick up my boarding pass.  That's when I realize, I don't have my credit cards, money or ID.

Fuck.

I keep all the shit most guys keep in their wallets in a metal clip.  It's like a money clip, except it holds my credit cards, ID, cash etc, and is smaller than a deck of playing cards.  I can't stand carrying a wallet because they're too damn bulky.  I RUN back to my truck to find out what the fuck is going on.  I start looking under my seats, in the back seat, under floor mats, and finally after a few minutes I find it nestled between the seat belt harness and the seat.  It must have fallen out of my pocket.  Awesome.

I'm sweating now, I know I'm cutting it close, but I'm determind to catch my flight.  I get to the counter, thank god there's no line, and the lady says, "Where are you going?"  I tell her and she says, "Wow, you're early."  And I say, "No, I'm not, I'm running late."  That's when she says, "You're not on the 8:10?"  And I say, "No, the 5:52."  Then she literally says, "Oh, God!"  And starts typing really fast.  Then she says, "Ohhh, I'm sorry, it's too late."  "What do you mean to late?!?!  It's 5:10!!!  It doesn't take off for another 42 minutes!!!  It doesn't even fucking board for another 12 minutes!!!"   That's when she tells me that the cut off for getting your boarding pass is 45 minutes before departure, and after that point there's nothing she could do.  I think the bitch is lying.  I know you can catch more flies with honey, but I'm one pissed dude.  Never will I fly with that airline again.

Here's what makes it even worse:  I have always, in the past printed my boarding pass at home before my flight.  That way you can skip the counter and go straight to security.  If I had done this like usual, I would have been able to bypass that bitch at the counter and make my flight.  Unfortunately, I was out of paper yesterday, and of course this was the one time I was late.

She gets me on the next flight at 8:10, and I get a window seat.  Cool.  Now I have 3 fucking hours to kill.  At least there's a bar next to my gate.  I go through security, and I'm the only person.  No shit, it's 5 TSA employees and me.  Do I really have to take off my shoes?  Yes.  I take my sweet ass time putting my duffel bag and metal crap in the plastic tray.  I put my shoes back on, my crap back in my pockets, sling my bag on my shoulder, and head to my gate.

Along the way I walk past the gate for the flight I "missed".  It was still boarding.  I had plenty of time, and missed my flight because of a fucking technicality.  I just stood there staring at the door, and the way too cheerful ticket taker. 

I am Johnny's barely contained rage.

Too bad the boarding pass in my pocket was for the one 2 and a half hours later.  I park my ass at the bar and get a tall Sam Adams.  The bartender tells me I can get a shot of whatever I want for three bucks with the beer.  Airport bar special, I suppose.  At least something is going right.  I get a shot of Hennessy.  Over the course of the next two hours I get really fucked up.  I kept ordering 24 oz. beers and shots.  I don't even remember how much my tab was, I just threw a $100 bill at the bartender and took some change back and left some for him.  He may have gotten a $50 tip for all I remember.

One thing was for sure.  I was DYING for a fucking cigarette.  I smoke two packs a day, and it had been over 2 hours since my last, and compounded by the stress and the drinking, I needed that sweet sweet nicotine like a crackhead after a rock.  I went to piss several times and hoped I could sneak one in a stall, just like an errant high-schooler.  Too bad they keep bathroom "attendants" in every men's room.  I wanted one bad but couldn't risk it.

While I'm at the bar drinking into oblivion, I talked to this guy who worked on Ferraris and Maseratis for a living.  That dude was one cool son of a bitch.  But eventually it was time to finally get my ass on the plane.  No tunnel connecting this flight, we had to walk out onto the tarmac and go up stairs.  Once I get outside, I cup a cigarette in my hand so that it can't be seen.  I quickly light it when I think no one's looking, but some luggage monkey with horrible acne and an orange vest blows the whistle.  Literally.  He blows a fucking whistle and shouts, "hey, you can't do that!"  I suck in one last time and flick it at him, he looks like Pete from "O Brother Where Art Thou" on a weekend binge.  Then go up the steps.

The plane has 3 seats to a row.  2 on one side of the aisle and 1 on the other.  I'm lucky enough to have the single next to the window.  Every time I fly, I always secretly hope I get to sit next to a hot, attractive woman, but that never happens.  I know every other guy does the same thing, but they just won't admit it.  Everytime though, without fail, you end up sitting next to some lard ass who breathes like he just ran up a flight of stairs, or a midwestern housewife who just looooooooooooooooves to talk.

Then I see a gorgeous bombshell making her way towards me.  I'm not looking at her though, trying to play it cool.  Bam!  She sits in the seat across the aisle from mine.  Jackpot!  I've flown dozens of times and never had this happen, cool.  Then her 6'6 gorilla boyfriend slides in and sits in the window seat next to her.  Shit.  Oh well.

Minutes later we're in the air.  My headphones are on, seat is no longer upright and locked, sunglasses on to block out the light, and I'm cruising at 10,000 feet while rocking out to some QOTSA.  That's when it hits me.  A foul smelling, repugnant, and utterly putrid fart has been released by a fellow passenger.  It smelled like a dead baby's coffin and pickled eggs.  I instantly sit up and slap my hand over my mouth and nose.  I start looking around the see who this evildoer is.  Is it the ghetto thug-life wanna be across the aisle and back one row?  Is it the chubby bald dude sitting directly in front of me?  We were all looking at each other, and the hot girl was spattering, "Oh my GAWD!" and pulls her shirt up over her nose.  My eyes are watering, and I gag a couple of times. 

Eventually after some nervous chuckling and comotion, we all get back to reading our books and listening to mp3 players.  I think it was the dude in front of me who farted.  He never turned around or said a work.  Either the fart didn't bother him (impossible, unless it was his own), or he was too embarassed to say anything.  I wanted to tap him on the shoulder and ask him what the fuck he ate, and why he felt the need to ass blast all over me.

Yeah, that was my Christmas Eve.  How was yours?