In Soviet Russia, blog writes you! (Ode to an Idiot: Part 3)

Well, well, well...it's been well over a year since I posted in this here blog, and what have you been doing with yourself all this time, hmmm? Masturbating, that's what! Oh, wait, that's what I've been doing with my time. How awkward.

Ok, moving on.

So, yeah. A bunch of crap has happened since the last time I posted, but none of it really matters, and no one really cares, so I'll skip all that. What everyone DOES enjoy (if enough boredom and alcohol are involved) are stories where people (i.e. me) make complete idiots of themselves. I've come to be well known for my patented stories that go nowhere, and this is yet another of those. And, of course, as the title would suggest, it's yet another story where I make an idiot out of myself. Yeah! So, let me get right to it, and tell you the amazingly funny story about my 25th birthday (if it's not funny enough for you, I'll give you your money back. Or kick you in the nuts. One or the other.)

Ok. Yeah. I turned 25 about two months ago. A quarter-century of pleasing the ladies. Ok, that's not true. It's been more like...ten years. Minutes. Never. Whatever! That's not the point of the story.

The point of the story is, I, for the first time since I was, like, ten (seriously) actually had something big planned for my birthday.

My best friend decided, probably against her better judgment, to fly out and see me out here in middle-of-fucking-nowhere Arizona. We set up plans well in advance, she got her plane ticket, I figured out how to get to the airport (gas means go!) and we were on our way to a nice, long weekend of eating cheese doodles and watching re-runs of Welcome Back, Kotter (not really.) (Ok, really.)

So, day of the trip, I get home from work. My friend calls me on my telephone, and says she's at the airport in Burbank, about ready to fly out. She'll be here in just a few hours, but in the meantime, we're killing time by talking on the phone
(god knows why she would call me, though.)

I'm on my way to Wal-Mart because I just broke my shower curtain rod (don't ask) and needed to buy a new one (an omen of things to come.)

I'm sitting in my car, talking to her, when I feel the seat snap. I say, "Wow, well, my seat just broke." Things is, I was only joking. See, my seat (much like the power locks in my car) never quite worked right: It's kind of the Ryan of seats. It does its job for awhile, but eventually decides to take a break every now and then. 'Cause being a seat is hard fucking work.

So, every once in awhile, the seat will just snap back, and I'll have to adjust it forward. No big deal. Don't know why this happens, but it's easily fixable, and the seat isn't REALLY broken, it just doesn't hold as well as I'd like.

Again, I said "My seat just broke" jokingly, and then tell her I have to get off the phone so I can go to Wal-Mart to get the shower curtain rod that I broke.

Funny thing is, I go to adjust the seat, and guess what? This time, the seat really DID break. In fact, when I reach down to where my lower back is, I can feel the metal underneath the fabric. Yup- ladies and gentlemen, less than an hour after breaking my shower curtain rod, I have broken my driver's seat.

Now, it's still usable- but it wobbles back and forth quite a bit. And if the other side breaks, I'm completely fucked.

Great. Perfect. It's not like I need my car or anything.

So that happens, and that's hilarious and all, but now it's a few hours later and time to drive to the airport.

I get to the airport relatively unscathed, and actually don't hit too much traffic. In fact, I get there early (which, it turns out, was a very good thing.)

Now, I'm hearing from people all week how easy the airport is to navigate. Oh, it's easy, they say. Easy my freakin' ass.

What I want to know from these people is this- what is YOUR fucking definition of easy? Because my definition, and the definition of, you know, most of humanity, is something that is, um, NOT difficult. That's kind of the important part.

These people who say navigating Sky Harbor airport is easy are also the same people who aced calculus and put together huge pieces of unassembled furniture in about five minutes. You people fucking suck.

So, I drive in to the airport, notice a sign that says Southwest flights arrive at terminal 4, and proceed to get in the lane for terminal 4. Easy, right?

So, I'm driving, I'm driving, I'm driving...wait a god damn second, where's the parking lot? I see signs that direct me toward the parking lot and I follow them. But...I'm not seeing the parking lot.

I'm driving, I'm driving- I see a sign that says, "Now exiting Sky Harbor Airport." Um- right. Because when I saw a sign that said "Parking this way," I should have assumed it really meant, "You're a gigantic fucking sucker and people are going to make fun of you, because this is really the exit. Thanks for coming, asshole."

Fortunately, there's a lane you can get in to go back into the airport, since Sky Harbor is essentially one giant loop. So, a few minutes later, I'm right back at the start, except this time I swear to myself that I'll find this damn parking lot. The first time was just a fluke. I mean, how hard could it be, right? I'm not that stupid, right? Right?

Ok, second time through the airport now. I'm following the signs, trying to make my way to the parking lot. This time, thankfully, I don't end up in the same place.

No, this time, kids, it's worse.

This time, I'm driving and I notice a sign that says "Now exiting airport, entering Interstate 10." WHAT?! This is worse than the last time! And there's no place to make a U-Turn!

So, now, I'm on the interstate, heading back home. Let me say that again- I have now not only successfully exited the airport, AGAIN, but am on the freeway. Going the opposite direction of the airport.

I get off at the next exit, drive through surface streets through a terrible part of town, at night, mind you, and eventually make my way back to the airport.

Ok, third time's a charm, and this time, after screaming explicitives that no human being should hear or repeat, I finally find the parking lot.

Now time to find my friend. Which shouldn't be hard, right? I mean, sure, the parking situation sucked, but THIS should be relatively painless, right?

If you're laughing right now, you're a very intuitive person.

I head to terminal 4 and realize that I'm in the departures section, not arrivals. After a few minutes of figuring out whether 'departure' meant coming or going, I started my trek to find the arrivals section.

I'm walking around, looking, not finding it. My friend calls to tell me she's off the plane already. Great. No problem, I tell her. This shouldn't take long. See you in a minute and all that.

Yet I'm still not finding it.

Finally, I ask for help. Airport employee tells me that arrivals for gate C are on the third floor. Just go straight up the stairs, you can't miss it.

So, I do just that. Still not seeing my friend.

Then I get a call: She's in baggage claim now. First floor. Can't miss it.

Ok.

So, I head down the stairs again, start looking around. No baggage claim. Very few people, in fact, which I find odd considering, you know, this is an airport.

I'm looking around, looking around, looking around some more. My stubble has now turned into a full-grown beard. I look like Jesus in a Metallica t-shirt.

Finally, it hits me- um, dude? She said baggage claim was on level ONE. You're on level TWO. You know those stairs you went down? Yeah, if you're on level THREE, then you need to go down TWO flights of stairs to get to ONE. Basic math there, buddy.

Finally, I do make it to baggage claim, and everything is in harmony. I've met up with my friend, we're heading back to my house, everything seems to be going ok. And I've had a hell of a visit so far, a bunch of crazy things have happened, there's no way anything more could happen, could it?

No, there isn't. She visited for a few days and everything worked out fine. The end.






Naw, that's not what happened. Are you fucking kidding me? You actually thought it was over? Dude, you're gullible.

No, of course the bad stuff wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

The next day, my friend and I are hanging out, discussing "cool" things, like the kids do, when my mom walks up and goes, "Um...did someone steal your hubcap last night?"

To which I reply: "Whaaa?"

Yup. That's right. One of my hupcaps is missing. Because, you know, everything else that broke in the last few days wasn't enough. I still had hope that things would go ok. And any time there's hope, there's a vengeful god to come down and kick you in the ass and show you who's really in charge.

So, yeah. That happened.

The day of the celebration of my birth went relatively well. Hanging out with my best friend was, of course, awesome. Went down to see some family about 50 miles away. Had dinner. Came home and watched a bunch of DVDs. It was turning out to be a pretty damn good birthday.

The next day, I throw in some laundry. Now, embaressingly enough, I have nothing to wear. So, I'm stark naked. You know. Whatev.

Ok, not really. I had my Big Bird pajamas on. You happy? Huh? You fucking happy now that I've admitted that?! You make me sick!

Anyway, the laundry finishes, and I pull out my shorts, and they're- well, they're vibrating.

Now, this does not compute. This is one of those moments in life where something just makes absolutely, positively no sense, you know? Like if you were driving and a giant mechanical bird swooped into your car and started singing Sinatra. Yeah. That would be fucking weird. That would literally make NO sense.

My shorts. Are. Vibrating. In my hands. Shaking. Moving around of their own accord.

My brain goes completely blank.

Then it hits me: My cell phone!

Yes, kids. Yes. I left my cell phone in my shorts pocket the night before. And it ran through the wash. And it was now completely and hopelessly destroyed.

The worst part? I recalled a conversation that ran through my head the night before:


Ryan: I, uh- I can't find my cell phone.

Best Friend: Did you check your shorts pocket?

Ryan: Yeah, totally. It's not there.


*cough*

There are no words, kids. There are no words.

So, Sunday rolls around, my friend heads back home (after spending five days with me, I'm sure she was extremely grateful to be going back).

Now, the trip is over, so you'd think my bad luck would be gone, right?

No, my friends. Like the clichéd horror movie of the mid-nineties on, there always has to be one last surprise right at the end.

Monday morning. I carpooled this morning, and the person I carpool with works a few miles away, so I don't have my car. I head to the break room to eat my morning dose of Pop Tarts and vodka.

I sit down in one of the chairs. I hear a rip. I look down.

I've ripped my brand new pair of pants, that I got FOR MY BIRTHDAY, on the arm of the chair.

No, my friends, it's not just that I ripped my pants, it's where I ripped my pants: Right on the back pocket. That's right- I have a gigantic hole in the ass of my pants, and eight hours of work to go. With no way to get back home.

Sigh.

Fortunately for me, my shirt covered it up pretty well, though all day I was waiting for it to rip further, past the point that my shirt would cover up, and everyone would see my Batman underwear.

Now, let's just recap, shall we? Over the course of six days, I managed to break a shower curtain rod, break the driver's seat in my car, lose a hubcap, destroy my cell phone and rip a brand new pair of pants.

The fun never stops, I tell 'ya.

So, that's it. This'll probably be my last blog until 2012 or so. Thanks for reading.