Witch on a Broomstick

Ideally, I would like to be a witch. Flying around in a broomstick, oh, it’s the dream. It would also be great fun to scare the little shits and ride around with black cats as sidekicks. Having a flying broomstick would mean, I wouldn’t have to step foot in another airport.

My last airport visit made me really want that flying broomstick. While bolting toward the coffee line, an evil hipster mombie (when a mom meets a zombie) aggressively pushed her stroller in front of me.

“Hey, I was in line before you were.”

“No, you looked down right when I got in line,” said, hipster mombie, adjusting her leather jacket, which looked tawdry, but cost a fortune, probably.

Grumpy Anthony (yours, truly) wanted to yell and put on a magical theatrical performance.

“You think, you have special privilege with that fucking stroller, using it as a fucking weapon to cut in line.”

Steam practically floated from my ears, in the tradition of porcelain teapot. Shock trembled through her soy latte sensibilities. However, she didn’t say much. Her baby picked his nose, merrily. She went about her hipster business and didn’t budge.

After savoring in the “Neurotic New Yorker special, “coffee+ bagel + happy pill. I strolled over to the gate, for boarding.

“Hey, your carry-on is too big. You must check it-in,” yelled the stiff, gate agent.

“I paid, specifically for group one, to not check-in my luggage.”

“We need to measure your luggage, sir.”

Placing my carry on the baggage, measuring template, it didn’t fit.

“Sir, we need to check-in that bag.”

“Dallas is where I connect planes. I’m going to California. Honestly, you people are going to loose my bag,” I am not checking it in.

Zipping open the carry on, I flattened it. Finally, it fit into the measuring template. My friend, the gate agent wouldn’t budge. She was determined to check-in my carry-on.

Thanks to my theatrical side, Dallas bound passengers received a free off-off-off-Broadway performance. Taking out my bottle of happy pills, I walked over to her.

“I’m very ill, and must board this plane.”

Trying to avoid a lawsuit or bad Yelp review, the gate agent allowed me to board the aircraft.

“Happy fucking holidays,” I shouted and ran to my seat. Delighted, I flew to Dallas. Upon arrival, I practically hugged my carry-on, whom I almost lost in airport oblivion/hell. Eventually, I was on a plane to California’s Inland Empire.

On an unseasonably frosty afternoon, I was back in my motherland, California. Reunited with my father, we laughed at my ordeal and great theatrics. Glancing into the cloudless blue skies, I proclaimed, “Shit, somebody really needs to come up with a flying broomstick. It would eliminate grumpy passengers at the airport.”