went to Kentucky a few weeks ago. I thought I was going to Cancun, but I got on the wrong plane. It happens. I figured I could at least see if the Colonel’s friend chicken was any better at the source. It’s not. And the source isn’t that good either. In fact, the one thing I learned this weekend was to stay away from Kentucky entirely.

After arriving in the state, I drive to my hotel and inquire about the amenities provided. Bathroom? Ye-up (you have to ask this sort of question when you’re staying in a third-world state). Bed? Ye-up. Television? Huh? Television? You know, boob-tube, babble-box, TV… TV? His eyes light up like a retarded kid on a bar-b-que. Oh, yeah, we gots one of them in yer room. Do I get cable with that? Yeah, you got the extensive cable in there. Extensive? You mean extended cable?

Ok, well, at least I can sit in my room and watch TV all weekend. With the goddamned air-conditioner on full blast because it’s 90 degrees in Kentuckiana and humid as a whore’s armpit.

On the elevator ride to my room I meet four hefty hicks, decked out in their best flannel shirts and trucker hats. Not the kind of trucker hats that the kids wear because they don’t know who Von Dutch is but they want to be cool anyway, but real, live trucker hats. Probably worn because these folks were truckers. Who drive trucks. Because that’s what trucker hats are for.

One of the hicks, the one with no teeth, asked if I came for the gun show. Whoa, did I just walk into a cliché? Hicks and gun shows? I couldn’t make this shit up if I were stoned. I tell the hicks to fuck off and finally get to my room.

Apparently in Kentucky ‘extensive cable’ isn’t the same as it is in California. There were five channels. Three were 24/7 coverage of people staring at the coffin that probably didn’t contain Reagan’s body. And by the way, Reagan was a lying whore. Just because he’s dead doesn’t mean I have to say nice things about him. Reagan was a bastard. If you don’t know why, you’re either too young to be reading this, you’re a fuck up who didn’t pay attention in history class, or you’re an idiot. Suffice it to say: Nicaragua, El Salvador, Iran-Contra, Trickle-down Economics. You know who else is a fuck up? Clinton. Who the hell writes a thousand pages of memoirs? He wasn’t a good president either. He had sex with too many ugly women. Talk about misuse of executive privilege.

Anyway, three channels for Reagan. And then the Weather Channel. Hot it said. Hot and humid. Oh, really? Because I couldn’t tell. Fuck you, Christina Abernathy, and fuck your charming smile. Meteorologists are like Tarot card readers. And horoscope writers. If anyone deserves to have their leg peed on, it’s weather people.

The weather channel is a waste of television space. The seven-day forecast is always wrong. Well, it’s not so much wrong as it is useless. There’s a sixty percent chance of rain today. If it doesn’t rain? Well, that must have been the other forty percent. If you want to know the weather, get your fat ass off the goddamn couch and look out the fucking window. There are no windows in the basement where you live? Then step outside and look up at the sky. Don’t stay out long though. We wouldn’t want the noon-day sun to burn your pasty hide.

And the last channel? It’s the preview channel. Nothing but a slowly scrolling list of all the programs I will not be viewing because I am, in fact, in Kentucky.

TV sucks so I go back outside to my car, which, by the way, is pretty pimp. Just take a gander at this bad boy:

For only $15 a day I got this thing fully loaded with air-conditioner, CD player and kidnap proof trunk:

I spent some time taking in the attractions which were few and worthless. I saw Fort Knox where the nation's gold used to be kept. Now it has tanks. Which is good because I'm afraid of terrorists and terrorists are afraid of tanks.

Oh no, terrist!! You better run!!

After I saw this sign I didn’t stay long at Fort Knox:

I'm not sure what loitring is, but to make sure I wasn't doing it, I made like a terrist and got the flock out of there. After driving for a bit, I saw this sign:

Apparently, they're very excited about terminal illnesses in the fried chicken state.

I took all these pictures from my car. I don't think I set foot on actual Kentuckian soil the entire time but by this time I was ready to leave. Little did I know what lay in store for me.

Pack my bags, return rental car, and wait in line at airport. You know the drill. After an hour in line waiting to check in I reach the blue clad American Airlines customer disservice person. Name tag said Norma.

"I'm sorry but the flight has been cancelled," Norma informs me cheerily.

"Cancelled? What the fuck? When was it cancelled?" I’m a little confused.

She looks at her screen. “Um… about four hours ago.”

“Do you have my phone number?” I ask.

“Yes, sir. Phone numbers are required information when booking flights.” What a stupid question, her tone says. I should have known that. In fact, I did know that. But I asked that question to ask this question:

“So you could have called to notify me that the flight was cancelled?”

“I'm sorry, but that's not our policy.” Again, stupid question.

“What exactly is your policy?”

“We prefer to wait until after you've waited in line for an hour at check in to tell you the bad news,” Norma explains. “We find that after the pointless wait, most have had their wills shattered and are less likely to cause a scene.”

Whatever. “Why was my flight cancelled?”

"I'm not sure exactly,” she replies,”probably the weather."

It was raining at the time. All the other flights by all the other carriers going to the same location were still flying. So I ask: “Are your planes the only ones that dissolve in the rain?”

With that same shit-eating grin on her face she asks, “I’m sorry?”

"Why are all the other planes still running? Are they not affected by the weather?"

"Perhaps it's the weather at the destination," she responds dismissively.

I ask the next logical question: “What’s the weather like at my destination?”

She looks at her little computer screen for a minute, taps a few buttons on her keyboard, scratches her ass. “It’s sunny.”

“So, your planes melt in the sun, too?”

“No, sir,” she’s getting a bit peeved at this point. Too many questions. Oh, dear me, I’m so sorry for taking your time, but you cancelled my fucking flight. “We're just doing this to fuck with you. It's been a slow day.” Turns out the only way they can keep visitors in the state is to cancel their out-bound flights. She continues: "You're going to have to wait until tomorrow morning for the next flight out."

That’s not cool. I finally convinced her that she should book me passage on another airline so that I could leave her God forsaken state sooner. The phrase ‘fuck you, goddamn cum-guzzling goat fucker’ shouted at the top of your voice is good for convincing people of things like this. Now I was taking an American Airlines flight to Chicago and a United flight from Chicago home. Way out of my way. Way fucking shitty. Way to go American Airlines.

I arrive at O’Hare airport or whatever it’s called. I don’t care. And I’m in the American Airlines terminal. I don’t know where my next flight is so I ask some chick at the information booth. “I’m transferring to a United flight,” I explain, handing her my boarding pass. “Where do I find that?”

“Let's see,” she begins tappity tappity tapping on her computar machine. “Oh…” She pauses, perplexed. “This is a United flight.”

Oh, is it? Maybe that's why I said I had a United flight. I can't be sure though, I'm told that I'm retarded. But I can't really think of any other reason why I would have said United.

“That's all the way over in terminal one. You should have just flown American all the way. It would have been faster.”

“Oh, really? Thanks I'll remember that.” I grabbed her eyebrows and slammed her head repeatedly into her tappity-tap machine. "Faster this, bitch." Yeah, I know, it doesn't make sense. I don't care. I’m home now and I don’t think I’ll be leaving this state any time soon.




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