Sunday, September 02, 2007

On the plane to Australia!

I'm writin' this to you on the plane to Australia! We left the gate at San Francisco around four hours ago, and we're just about taxiin' for takeoff, so I am all kinds of jazzed. I'm six gin and tonics deep, people! They say the flight will be somethin' like three days, so I'm gettin' all set up for a nice long nap, maybe a couple hangovers, and possibly a birthday or a discreet fling. There's no tellin' when you're flyin' to the land down under.

Wow, we're takin' off! That's gotta be a first for United.

Oops. Bad news. The plane got to the runway but the pilots noticed they didn't have readings from their "Hackmer-Preda valve monitors," so it's back to the hangar. Gin and tonic, please!

Whoah, I just had a thought about Australians. Their reputation is that in, like, the eighteenth century, England sent all their "criminals" to live in Australia, and that's who Australians are based on now. Crooks. That's a rough one. I have a theory, though. You know how Australians are all about a big fat-ass crazy time, always havin' fun and crackin' twelve-inch lagers and just shootin' a gun at a big dirt hill? England exported all of its fun people! Stay with me, here.

That's right - the Church of England was hella powerful at the time, and they wanted everyone to be quiet and sit down and read that poem about roses. Future Australians were havin' none of it! They were like, "Awright, mate, if I 'ave to keep me arse planted through one more go of that poem about the bleedin' red rose, I'm gonna nick that copper's 'elmet and catch me the next dinghy t' perdition. This England 'ere's a right dud geezer."

Just like that, just like the Pied Piper, Australians got themselves taken outta' England and put where the sun does shine — and you know what? Australians have never produced a single poem. It's a point of national pride. England's loss? You bet. English people are sitting around eating cold trout dishes in a room where every single surface has a different flower print on it, and Australians are barbecuing whole lambs over the fossilized bones of a fifteen hundred pound paleolithic ant. The keg? An ice silo of lager. Back in the motherland, England is runnin' outta poems, and their pasty youth are dyin' of Jamie Oliver School Dinners starvation. (That information was on TV.)

Alright, Australia, here I come. I'm divin' in. I'm stoked. I got a book about drivin' with the steerin' wheel on the wrong side, and a computer keyboard that has that special key that prints out ", mate." When this 747 lands, I'm gonna open my arms during the whole descent! That's how much I'm already lovin' you, Australia. We gonna cuddle-scrum 'til the night is cashed.

Uh oh...the hangar ain't got no replacement Hackmer-Preda valve monitor cable. I may be writin' to you from this plane for another twelve hours, they say! That's...they gonna need to get more gin from SkyMeal or whatever that white truck with the lift is.