Bitches at Airports: A True Story Rant

What exactly do full body scans entail?

Now, I’m not one to get pissed over travel. I don’t mind long car rides and I don’t mind airplanes. It’s merely transportation, a service to get you from one point to another. However, in light of all the students leaving the comfortable abides of their 80-square-foot dorm rooms and returning home soon, it’s not out of reason to expect some bumps in the road. But God (and Rick Perry) knows that there’s something wrong with America when you encounter all of these at once.

1. The Forgotten Wallet
You somehow get stuck behind the shithole that forgot their wallet. Last time I checked, having your goddamn money and your goddamn ID card and your goddamn nonfat skinny double shot cherry chapstick was an important thing. So maybe you shouldn’t switch from the raggedy hippy knit satchel thing you wear around campus to promote green living to that let’s-kill-all-the-animals Dooney & Bourke purse that could’ve paid Theta Chi’s dues for the year, you hypocritical, smarmy fuck. I’m just sayin’.

2. You get behind the fashionista in security.
Sure, you want to look nice, or even sexy (see above paragraph on bag selection). That does not give you a single reason to wear all of that jewelry! I’m pretty sure Jenna Marbles said it quite clearly in a recent video, “Who the fuck are you trying to impress!?” I’m not gonna see your P90X ass ever again, and girl, if you’re doing that shit, you need to realize that a guy doesn’t wanna have the same testosterone levels as you. Otherwise shake off the mountains of bangles and bracelets and rings and toe-rings and anklets and earring and noserings and watches and necklaces and chokers and belts and fuck-fuck-fucks you have laying around your gelatinous body! PUT ON SOME MAKEUP INSTEAD, IT DOESN’T SLOW DOWN THE GODDAMN LINE. Seriously, some of you looked like you were heading to MIA’s wedding shoot.

3. You’re on either the overstuffed plane…
And you’ll probably get the average person sitting next to you, but Jesus this shit will be uncomfortable. No one wants to feel like they’re a layer of apples in your Meemaw’s famous pie. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been folded over and under like some puff pastry under these old people. Thank God I check myself in early so I can pick an aisle or window seat. You’ll also get your fair share of screaming children and pissed of menopausal hostesses.

Does it count as the mile high club

4. Or the terribly empty plane
THIS IS THE WORST ONE. Because god knows, this is the one that those irritable passengers take. “I don’t like flying” is NOT an excuse to FLY ON A FREAKING AIRPLANE WITH ME. These are the people that get worked up and stressed out over every single thing and will not extract their pound of flesh from your innocent face. Even Ryan Murphy’s reprehensible excuse for a show Nip/Tuck couldn’t fix that. Not to mention, this is the flight for those annoying off-duty crew members to take.

Which reminds me of a story.

So I’m already stressed because I got stuck behind a fashionista, but I’ve calmed down with my two hours of gate wait time and a frap from Starbucks (sorry, I’m a pretentious fuck). We board the airplane and there’s this old man that notices practically no one is on the plane. He sits in front of me, which is actually the beginning of the economy plus seating or some shit. Who comes by? The asshole Off-Duty crew members. A pilot and his wife. They practically shove the old, octagenarian man out of the seat and tell him if he wants to sit there, he’ll have to pay more. So he has to sit in his assigned seat, two over from me. Ok. I’m chill. He’s a nice guy and keeps to himself. So I sit in my seat in such a way that I prop my foot up on the back curves of the armrest in front of me. There’s absolutely no way the other person can feel it, and I’ve never had a problem. Until this dickbagel shoves his elbow as far back as he can and bumps my foot. He immediately turns around as I’m reading that ridiculousness called SkyMall and goes, “Excuse me. Take your nasty foot off the armrest.” EXCUSE ME?! NASTY? Could have left that part out man. I have nice feet. My response? “Um… It’s on my side, and it’s not hurting you. But whatever.” And I take my foot off. A few minutes later, my foot wanders back up, because you know, they’re nasty, which clearly means that they’re rebellious and belligerent. He turns around again, but then his wife speaks, “If you do that one more time, I’m going to call the attendant. Take your feet off.” YOU ARE OFF DUTY BITCH, YOU ARE A SAD RECENTLY BOTOX’D WASPY CUNTMUFFIN. TAKE YOUR NASTY COLLAGEN LIPS AND PUT THEM ON A SEVEN DOLLAR VODKA CRANBERRY AND OUT OF MY EAR.

Needless to say, my legs were very uncomfortable for the rest of the flight. Which naturally brings us to:

Handle with care

5. You get the asshole baghandlers.
These guys will ruin every day you have after this flight for the rest your life. Did you really like your matched set of luggage? Did you pay that heinous extra to get Louis Vuitton? Is your life precedent on the careful handling of that unknown designer label garment bag? Well, maybe we should occupy your 1% ass, but afterwards console you, because those baghandlers will get to you first. They’ll scuff it up, burn the side, get tar and grease everywhere and then toss your luggage on the line like Clinton tossed Lewinsky on the Oval Office desk.

All in all, maybe you should just drive yourself to your destination. I hear gas is cheap.

Hate a Random Country: Costa Rica

One of the numerous heinous individuals populating this tainthole of a country

A few weeks ago, a member of our presteinous (that’s prestigiously heinous, if you’re wondering) blog was approached at an off-campus party and asked if we would write an installment of our unnecessarily abrasive “Hate a Random Country” series on his home country, Costa Rica. The member of the blog, who was most certainly not Evander Jones, got down from the table on which he was exuberantly belly-dancing and happily agreed to have the article written. That being said, this article is not being written only by request – it’s being written because Costa Rica is home to a massive concentration of twatitude that can be rivaled only by the Seneca Falls Convention.

“Costa Rica” is a country similar to “Democratic Republic of Congo,” in that its name in no way reflects the country itself. Spanish for “Rich Coast,” Costa Rica is truly only rich in two things: Trees and tainthood. I’ll focus mostly on the tainthood.

Red, white, and blue!? BRILLIANT!!!

For those of us who don’t give a flying fuckstick about shithole countries like Costa Rica, it may be a surprise to learn that the currency in Costa Rica is the “colón” – presumably named for either the human colon or Cristobal Colón, a.k.a. Christopher Columbus. After all, who wouldn’t want their currency named after a raging cockbottle who exploited their people? For fuck’s sake, Costa Rica. You don’t see Cherokees running around paying with Jacksons, or Northwestern’s defense running around paying with Anyones. Worse yet, the abbreviation for the Costa Rican Colón is, surprisingly enough, CRC – an acronym that, to Northwestern students, encompasses nearly all the School of Comm’s limitless atrociousness.

Besides their poorly-named currency, the country with a president named “Chinchilla” boasts many more aspects worth scrutinizing. For example, its coat of arms is the feeblest display of culture I’ve seen since Kappa Sig went to the Shedd Aquarium. The image consists of several features:

Contrary to initial beliefs, this is not a 5th Grade Social Studies project

• A landmass.  Presumably representing Costa Rica, the landmass is a strip of land with three unnaturally phallic geographic features.
• Two bodies of water.  Divided by the landmass, they likely represent the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans.  Because clearly, Costa Rica is the only fucking country that borders two oceans.
• Two ships.  Likely representing the Nina and the Pinta.  Or the Nina and the Santa Maria.  Or the Pinta and Santa Maria.  Or maybe just two generic coming-to-totally-fuck-your-people-over ships.
• A banner over the top reading “America Central.”  Apparently, no one ever informed these dumbshits that it’s called “Central America.”

The only thing rivaling Costa Rica's lack of defense is the Northwestern secondary

Perhaps the most unique fact about Costa Rica is that they don’t have a military.  Yes, you heard me.  To show you the full impact of this absurdity, allow me to put it into perspective.  On Monday nights, the backdoor of the Keg is more protected than the nation of Costa Rica.  On weekend nights, Burger King’s line-forming traditions are more protected than the nation of Costa Rica.  Two hammered college students bumping uglies in the basement of ZBT are more protected than the nation of Costa Rica.

You know, you’d think that a country bordering Nicaragua and Panama wouldn’t look too bad. But Costa Rica did it. And to be honest, that’s the one feat of Costa Rica that honestly impresses me. The nation’s four all-time Olympic medals aren’t impressive. The national soccer team’s four visits to the World Cup aren’t impressive. But damn – those Costa Ricans sure do know how to make themselves look like dickbrains. Well done, Costa Dickbrains. Well done.