Its Never Sunny In Pittsburgh

Dearest loyal spikeheads,

The following diatribe was baked up at 7 am in the Pittsburgh Int'l Airport. Please enjoy and understand that the punch-drunkenness takes a serious toll.




Greetings from beautiful Shittsburgh, PA. Big Thunder here, airport bloggin’ with the ever-faithful Lil’ Thunder at my side. Just got off a nightmare flight that has me feeling like I just went headfirst through an old lady’s windshield.

Travel back with me to a time, roughly 6 hours ago, when Lil’ Thunder and I were about to board our flight east (Note that by this time, the flight had been delayed, causing the Thunders to reschedule their connection, and causing your faithful correspondent to polish off a number of pints of Stella, you know, to take the edge off). As we check our boarding passes, we see that – could it be? – we are in row 4. Now this plane is a big mommajomma, mind you, so it’s a near certainty that they have four rows of first class. Note the word “near” in the previous sentence. As we round the corner down the main aisle, we count them: one, two, three rows and the dreaded wall. Not good times. Row three consists of a young family with mom and two daughters wearing matching fuzzy pink sweatsuits.

As I eased my Thunder into the middle seat (Note that Lil’ Thunder also had a middle seat – none of our rowmates were particularly inclined to accommodate a seat change) and realized that my knee would not extend beyond a 90 degree angle for the next 4.4 hours, I peered into the first class cabin, and the grumpiness set in. Lucky for me, said grumpiness was in no way magnified by the fact that Mr. Windowseat chose to thrust his knee a solid 4 inches over the property line. Mind you, dear readers, that your faithful correspondent is not erroneously named. The “Big” in BT is spot on. I therefore typically choose to occupy roughly all the allotted space in an airplane seat. So an invasion of my territory by a foreign and hostile body part is not welcome. This will not stand, you know? This unchecked aggression will not stand, man.

The only good part of the flight was that it left at about midnight, meaning your correspondent was out like a light, despite his pretzelline pose. However, he must relay what happened upon awakening to a virtual grope from Mr. Windowseat. Big Thunder looked ahead into The Cabin On The Other Side Of The Dividing Wall Where The Beautiful And Clean-Smelling People Sit. There, in row 3, was the Elder Jumpsuit Daughter (EJD). BT did some rough calculations, and the results appear below.

Ass-to-seat ratio:

BT 1/1.04
EJD 1/14.79

In other words, your correspondent was unabashedly jealous of this 8 year old’s seating chops. Not just that, but over the course of the next half hour or so, EJD decided to display her near-boundless accommodations by reenacting Martin Brodeur’s top 10 greatest saves whilst in reclining position. By the time she got to the 1995 Stanley Cup glove save against Sergei Federov, Big Thunder had positively turned a certain shade of green. All the while, homegirl was slamming vodka tonics* whilst perusing some first class literature. Judging by the handsome thoroughbred on the cover, I'm guessing it must have been Barbaro’s autobiography. He’s had a lot of free time since the Preakness.

All in all, a flight to forget. However, with the reward of an enjoyable party with Dave Law in the future (hopefully a deodorized Dave Law at that), things can only be looking up. [Ed. note - also at said party were Budds and EJ of Sportsmeat, the Blog fame.]





* Please note that there is a slim chance that she was drinking Sprites, but I’m telling you, by the end of the flight, the bitch was wasted.