Dear Whoopi,

Do you like airplanes? I always get very awkward when I’m on them. When I get to the airport, I usually grossly overestimate how much time it is going to take me. I put my bag on the scale at the baggage check place and feel like I’m spinning the big wheel on The Price is Right, hoping to get the $1 equivalent of having the bag weigh under 50 pounds. Do you weigh over 50 pounds Whoopi? At security I just try to not get arrested. While I’m positive I’ve done nothing wrong, the constantly changing regulations make me feel like I am and don’t even know it. I take the laptop out as well as all liquids and gels but end up pouring contact solution and toothpaste all over my computer in three-ounce doses. Then I forget to take my belt off and put my boarding pass through the X-ray. I walk through the metal detector sweating and get to second base with some large hairy black woman when it goes off. I always get very excited when I see the moving sidewalks and make sure to take them, but a poorly placed Cinnabon makes me hop the railing before it ends.

I fly Southwest, do you fly Southwest Whoopi? When I get on the plane, I sit towards the front by the window and try to not make eye contact with everyone, hoping to have an empty seat on an overbooked flight. The one hot girl on the flight asks if the seats next to me are taken. I over-zealously answer no and realize her fat father will instead be occupying my personal space for the next several hours with his man boobs blocking her from view.

After the plane takes off, I seriously consider making Sky Mall purchases like gold-plated nose hair trimmers and electric toilet seat warmers while fighting for armrest space with the fat man’s rolls. The flight attendant comes buy and I ask for a shot of Jack Daniels. The bleach blond woman asks for my ID and I try to convince her that I don’t have it, even though 15 people at the airport have first hand knowledge that I do.

A few minutes later I have to go to the bathroom and debate what to do with the crap on my tray table so I can stand. Then I wake my two neighbors, acknowledging I have to poop, and squeeze past them trying not to fart. I go to the bathroom at the front of the plane and TCOB (take care of business, just incase you didn’t know Whoopi), only to find that three people are waiting outside when I open the door. As I leave, all 150 passengers watch as a frail grandma reacts in disgust to the odor inside.

Ashamed, I try to watch a movie I downloaded on my computer only to find there is a surprisingly graphic sex scene and close my computer at the request of the 9-year-old behind me’s mom. I try to start up a conversation with the man next to me by saying, “hey look at that, that’s the Grand Canyon,” only have the pilot correctly identify the real Grand Canyon over the PA 15 minutes later.

Finally the plane lands and I discover not only am I too tall to stand up under the storage bin, but also that my neighbor has claimed my seat as a place to keep his backpack.

Maybe next time I can fly on your personal jet, Whoopi.

Yours Truly,
Nathan