My airport highlight was watching a man with a clearly aluminum cane throw a shit fit that he couldn’t take it through the metal detector despite his claims that it had a rubber tip, which while true, in no way affected its status as metallic.  They humored him and let him walk through with it just to prove that it’d trigger the alarm and he just looked at the device like it’d heard how he treated his TV remote and was conspiring against him.  The flight loaded 45 minutes late (fine because I had an hour to kill before my connecting flight) which was compounded with a 28 plane backup on the ground to create a two-hour delay ruling out my connecting flight.  God doesn’t close a door without opening a window and I was able to get free inflight WiFi to text my host via google chat that I’d be a day late.  The bastard offered to pick me up in Phoenix, about 100 miles from Tucson, and, swallowing any remaining shred of “a Scout is courteous” I jumped on the proposal like a trampoline.

The flight itself was fine, good even.  I’d escaped the two-seat fat tax yet again, got an aisle seat with two nice ladies, the one immediately next to me being quite easy on the eyes and who nuzzled against me when she fell asleep, and the provided web access offered a solid 500 kbps down, 1000 up.  Had the appropriate ports been open, I could have merced bitches in TF2 at 35000 feet.

My host picked me up in Phoenix, and then drove to Arby’s whereby we proceded to crush a total of seven sandwiches, and on arrival we both collapsed into our respective beds to a roast beef-induced food stupor.