By now, if you've been a semi-regular reader/viewer of this site you've noticed that I don't have an overt fondness- or really any fondness- for children. This is not to say that I hate all kids, I just hate most of them. And, in many cases, those children are yours. Sorry, it's true: If you have kids, they probably suck and- by right of transitive property- so do you.
I could go on and on about (okay, fine; I will) the shrieking, screaming toddlers who populated the ultra-expensive resort in Kauai, that I just shelled out hard-earned dollars to stay at for six days. In particular, I'll speak of one memorable child, a young boy who we will- for purposes of this article- refer to as "Pivnic" from this point on. Anyhow, Pivnic was like any other child at a Hawaiian resort who's been in the sun for a few days wreaking havoc in the Kauai Marriott's several million dollar pool area: he was sunburned, loud, dragging around a rotund and soul-dead parent in an ill-fitting bathing suit, and- most importantly- distracting the "heavy handed" bartender (my favorite one) from making me another Patron Margarita.
Anyhow, Pivnic, who had surmounted a bar stool and was leaning his soaking wet upper-body towards the garnish container - eyeing a pile of cherries with devious interest - suddenly blurted out to the bartender, "There's a floater in the pool!" To which, Pivnic's mother replied, "Yeah, tell him about it, honey." She then looked at the bartender and added, "He loves telling this story."
The bartender, in response, rolled his eyes and deadpanned "Yeah, great. Tell me all about it."
Pivnic then elaborated, "Somebody made a Baby Ruth in the pool. I saw it. It smelled bad."
"Eewww," Pivnic's proud mother cooed as she wrapped her arms around him, apparently oblivious to the rule of: He Who Smelt It, Dealt It.
At this point in my vacation I had already been in the pool on three occasions. The third such occasion, from that point on, was the last. The pool was one of the major reasons I chose to stay at the Marriott; how befitting that said pool wound up being a big pot of kid-shit-soup. Finally, the bartender filled up Pivnic's enormous tub of cola and slid it across the bar. Pivnic grabbed it with both hands- like a junkie savoring the sour, vinegar odor of a ball of black-tar heroin- and went running off back towards the pool (probably because he had to crap again).
The bartender finally became free to take my order, "Same thing again, Dan?" The bartenders all knew my name by day two; this had a lot to do with the fact that I actually tipped.
"Yeah, but make it a double," I said with a sigh as I eyed a course to drag my pool chair out to the beach.
The flight over to Kauai was full of (what can only be described as) fucking DORKS. I don't mean "dorks" in that it was a group of travelers who you wouldn't be surprised see at San Diego Comic Con or debating on the Viewaskew.com message boards; I mean it was a bunch of people who were, and will always be, totally un-cool; tragically un-cool- John Mayer people. This phenomenon led to a good amount of "Dorks on a Plane" jokes, the only pleasant side-effect of the experience discounting that I wound up in paradise at the end. And, as per the SOP of any lengthy flight that I ever seem to wind up on, the plane was stuffed full of the cacophonous offspring of said dorks.
As annoyed as I was by the seat-kicking horror of being on a five hour flight full of little savages, I survived. However, I'm not sure I'm going to be able to keep such a clear head should this situation arise again. The reason being: The new, tighter security measures in the wake of the terror-plot arrests in London and Pakistan. Here's a sample of the new, updated ban list for carry-on items:
1- Creams, lotions, salves and moisturizers. (So much for that last trip home, burn victim.)
2- Yogurt, whipped cream and aerosol cheese topping.
3- Cigar cutters. (God knows those are much more dangerous than a rolled-up magazine.)
4- Any wine or other liquid purchased at the duty-free shop. (These items have to be placed in checked bags but, as the duty-free shops are normally in the terminals, this is impossible.)
5- Toothpaste, mouthwash and deodorant. (Have fun on that flight to New Zealand with all the backpacking hippies! Oh and, by the way, regarding that hot girl seated next to you, just give up now. Thou shalt not hit that... Ever.)
6- Eye drops and saline solution.
7- Gel-filled bras. (I think these are false advertising, so I really don't care. I don't even know why I put this in here.)
8- Water bottles or other precious, hydrating beverages. (Don't worry; they'll give you a four ounce glass of water during the one beverage service. That'll suffice.)
The new rules prohibit liquids and gels of (almost) any kind, as the aforementioned terror-plot involved explosives in those forms. I understand that precaution is necessary in these times; I don't like it but it makes sense. I'm willing to compromise and put up with a little inconvenience to prevent the aircraft I'm flying in from exploding and falling out of the sky. I'll defer to the TSA's judgment.
Wait, what's that? What liquids are allowed on planes still? That doesn't sound right: fucking BABY FORMULA and BREAST MILK are allowed? Aren't those cloudy and reasonably thick liquids that could easily conceal a viscous, explosive mixture? Am I to understand that, in order to bring these items onto a flight, all the supposed mom has to do is taste a little of the milk (or formula) in front of the security screener? Does the TSA know that one can ingest a similar amount of arsenic, or another poison, without any serious side effects? Surely, this must be a mistake?
Nope. It's not a mistake; breast milk and baby formula are still allowed on airplanes. Obviously, the TSA knows that terrorists wouldn't ever bring a baby on a plane if they planned on blowing it up. Women and children have never been sacrificed to harm the "enemy" in previous wars; it'll be fine!
Great, not only am I going to have to be on a plane full of little shits- who still get to enjoy privileges that my adult-ass doesn't- they are also going to be the death of me. Really, that's wonderful; that's reasonable. It makes perfect sense: We all get to die because Pivnic's dork-ass parents- who have completely given up on life and exist solely to placate their child and cater to his tantrums- want him to enjoy a terribly expensive resort destination, which he won't even remember anyway, and give him the opportunity to shit in the multi-million dollar pool. Rad.
At least, when that breast milk detonates, it'll take Pivnic with it.
It's thoughts like this that let me sleep at night. |
