Another nice rant by Mark Morford:
Oh my yes, please yes, open your giant purse or crack your bitchin' briefcase and whip out that swell little silver Motorola and pop in the earpiece and dial that bad boy right up.
Because you know what I'd love right now, sitting here right next to you right at this tedious never-ending airborne moment? Why, I'd love nothing more than to listen to you whine for the next 137 minutes to your husband about how your acid reflux has been acting up again and you really think the goddamn Purple Pill ain't working and by the way how are your hemorrhoids honey maybe you should try tying a little rubber band around it to choke it off and oh sweet Jesus and we're still 10,000 feet over Oregon, and I am here, paralyzed.
I can't escape. It is physically impossible to slide more than nine inches away from you and it's apparently illegal for me to spend the entire flight in the three-square-foot airplane bathroom banging my head against the wall, and there simply aren't enough little bottles of Stoli in the in-flight drink cart to turn your conversation from brain-gnawingly deadly to merely numbly sufferable.
And despite how I am a writer and am therefore supposed to love this kind of thing, I really do not care to imagine the life you must lead that has led you to this moment wherein you find that you absolutely goddamn must call your sister and discuss in infinite painstaking detail just what, exactly, you should wear on your date with your rehabbed ex-husband who is taking you to Red Lobster to try and compensate for the drunkenness and the sloth and the diddling of the gum-snapping babysitter in the tract home rec room last summer.
Link:
http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/gate/archive/2005/05/06/notes050605.DTL&nl=fixKeith’s Barbeque Central