Ban This, Lousy Bastards

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and all that David Blaine crap. But that stuff bores me. So instead I’ll tell about last month when I went to Philadelphia.

I had a morning flight out of O’Hare. But not too early. That would kill me. People think that because I run I get up really early. But I don’t. I really don’t. Anyway, I got to the airport with plenty of time, and the security line was a breeze. If you really wanna know the truth, I kind of like the airport and security lines. I mean it. I really do. You get to see all types of jerks—unless you’re one of those bastards who have their own jet. God I hope you’re not one of those bastards.

I spent most of the flight eating my bananas and reading some corny book. The guy who sat next to me kept mumbling something to himself about leaving the foils on the subway. Crazy sunuvabitch. You would have liked him though. You really would. He wasn’t one of those goddamn jobbers who yaps your goddamn ear off the entire goddamn flight. I can’t stand those bastards, I really can’t. I think they should have non-talking flights. I mean, if nobody can smoke on the goddamn plane, nobody should be able to talk on the goddamn plane. All that yapping could interfere with the plane’s communication signals or something.

The first thing I did when I got to Philadelphia, I rented a goddamn car. They gave me a Dodge something. What a lousy car. The only good thing about it was the goddamn satellite radio.

I didn’t have anything special to do, so I decided to drive to Camden, New Jersey. I saw 40 guys in the middle of this one street, wearing their caps with the peaks to the back and to the side, horsing around, shooting the crap and drinking eightballs. I thought about asking them if they know where all the ducks go in the winter, but they seemed like the type of guys that might get sore about it—so I didn’t.

After driving for 300 goddamn years, I checked into my hotel back in old Philadelphia. Boy, what a room. It had a kitchenette and two flat-screened televisions and a bed with 800 pillows and everything. You could even order Super Nintendo games and play them through your goddman television if you wanted. I thought about ordering Super Punch—Out!!, but you have to be in the mood for that type of thing. Instead, I had a drink and watched Teach: Tony Danza on two goddman TVs.

The next day I went to the wedding that I came out to Philadelphia for. For Chrissake, you really didn’t think I was one of those phony bastards who just goes to Philadelphia because they goddamn feel like it, did ya?

At the reception, I had a couple of cocktails and chewed the rag with this guy at my table. We talked about old Schopenhauer and his goddamn suffering. Just for the hell of it, I asked the guy if he knew where the goddamn ducks go in the winter. He said the ducks didn’t need to go nowhere because it was always sunny in Philadelphia. What a prince.

The last day of my trip, I didn’t have anything real special to do, so I decided to do some pull ups. People never do pull ups. I swear to God they don’t. They’re always too busy raving about life or trying to imitate characters from coming-of-age novels they read in high school.

My flight back to Chicago was freakin' grand. I finished that corny book. And when I got home, I almost gave Ol’ Dirty Bastard a buzz. But he’s dead. That’s all I’m going to tell you about.