President Me (15 page)

I now have some directives for the airport itself, once you get past security.

First of all let's address the jetways. These are the telescoping covered bridges that we all get herded down and then stand in like cattle while we wait to get on the plane. From now on they must have temperature controls. I don't think that's too tall an order. I just flew six hundred miles per hour in a vehicle with free Wi-Fi and satellite TV to get to this cigar tube, I don't think a little temperature control is out of the question. It's always somehow ten degrees hotter or colder than the ambient temperature outside inside of these things. How the fuck is that possible, and could you possibly have a worse advertisement for your city? You're welcoming people to your town after they've been stuffed on a plane for several hours and their first impression is that they're either walking into an oven or a freezer?

A connected little side note to all the local cabdrivers who pick me up at the airports when I'm doing out-of-town gigs: You're not likely to have my ass grace your metropolis again if, when I comment on the extreme temperature, you say, “That's nothing, you should come back in August when it's really hot” or “You should have been here in January when it was really cold.” I shit you not, in the same year I went to San Antonio, where I was sweating through my shirt and got the “This isn't that bad” comment, and to Winnipeg, where the temperature reading on the cab was literally one degree, and was told, “This winter has actually been pretty mild.” At the same time don't inform me that if only I'd planned to come there three weeks from now, the leaves would have turned and it would be gorgeous. Why are you telling me something that's not on the menu? You know I can't enjoy it. I'm not coming back in three weeks. And don't tell me what I just missed either. I don't need to know that I was one day late for the Thirty-second Annual Big Titty Blowjob Festival.

Next up, everything on the other side of security should be a 24/7, international-waters, duty-free orgy. I can't stand when I'm on the road and I've gotten up at 4
A
.
M
. to get the first flight out and there is nothing open at the airport. I want a goddamn Bloody Mary. Yes, it's 7
A
.
M
. here but it's 10
A
.
M
. where I'm going, so why the fuck not? It's an international airport. You've got people coming from China and Australia and God knows where else and everyone's body is on a different clock. There should be places to get breakfast, lunch, or dinner and, of course, booze, at all times. If I could get on my plane, which is a mere thirty feet away, I could get that Bloody Mary. So why not at your bar? It's a bar, right? And the one time I attempted to break long-standing Carolla tradition and purchase something from the duty-free shop—I think it was a case of cigarettes the size of an accordion—I was shut down because I didn't have an international ticket.

That said, there are a lot of stores at the airport that we can do without. I was at the Detroit airport recently and noticed a Swarovski crystal store. Who is this for? Most of the people passing through that airport are stretching their budget to pick up something at the Cinnabon. Are there a lot of CEOs doing their Christmas shopping at the Detroit airport? I suspect this is why the city is bankrupt.

I tell you one store the airport does need. I call it the Lazy Dad Store. This is the place where all the tuned-out lazy fathers like me can grab something for their kid on the way home. The store would have different sections with items sporting the name and theme of all major cities. So when you arrive home in Chicago from a trip to Phoenix and you've forgotten to pick up something for the kids, before you leave O'Hare you can hop to the Phoenix section of the Lazy Dad Store and get them a pencil case with a cactus and a Road Runner on it.

As far as traveler behavior at the airport goes, when did it become a youth-hostel/hobo flophouse? Whenever there's a delay we all become cats and the airport is our living room. People started sleeping at the airport. Back in the day a guy would just tip his trucker hat over his eyes and lean back a little. Now the airport is a tent city with people using hoodies for pillows, draped across three chairs or laid out on the floor. I'm not talking about leaned back, I'm talking sprawled out. Shoes off, eyes closed, sweatpants on, boner up. I don't know if there's any other public space where you'd be so comfortable letting people watch you sleep. When my wife drags me to Target and I've got a half hour to kill, I don't curl up in the housewares section. Could you imagine doing this at Sears? “Honey, you shop, I'm going to bivouac in the husky section.” I swear I went to the airport bathroom once and saw a guy stretched out on one of those Koala changing tables.

And the plane you're about to get on is a flying sleep machine. There is nothing you can do in that confined space other than sleep. If you want to lean back with your eyes closed, that is the perfect venue. Collapsed like a rag doll in front of the bathroom so I have to step over you to take a piss is not a good plan.

Plus the airport has a hundred bars in it. There's no better place to kill time. There's a TV showing the game, there's beers on tap. Go in there, you idiots, and cut the shit.

And finally, I have a new law for all airport decor. Do not freak me out or bum me out before I get on the plane. Just before you get to security at Burbank airport you are greeted by this:

Do you know who that dude is? That's right, Amelia Earhart. Famous lesbian/aviator. Best known for two things—eating pussy and CRASHING AIRPLANES. Nothing instills confidence in the flying public like a large bronze depiction of a woman who ditched her plane in the Pacific never to be seen again leaning against a part that broke off upon impact. Sure, let's rub her for luck before getting on the twenty-seven-year-old Southwest regional jet. The only saving grace is that I don't think the majority of people know who this is when they see the statue. I imagine a lot of people tell their friend, “Yeah, I'll pick you up at the airport. Let's meet next to that statue of the dude with the paddle.”

A side note as I closely examine this picture. Let's talk about the placement of the velvet rope. If you can stand outside of the velvet and lean against the object the velvet rope is protecting without touching said velvet rope, then the parties involved, you have done a piss-poor job of velvet rope placement. And how is this protecting anything? You have three tons of bronze lesbian. Do you think there are some mischievous teens who are going to pull Mom's minivan up to the curb, try to run in and steal the statue, and go, “Damn, a velvet rope. Didn't see that one coming. Let's just go to the park and light a hobo on fire.”

PLANES, PILOTS, AND PASSENGERS
AND HOW THEY PISS ME OFF

There are many changes my FAA will make to planes themselves, the pilots, and more importantly the passengers' behavior in the cabin. This stuff has always driven me nuts as a passenger. Once I'm president, I'll finally get the chance to fix them.

First up, pilots. What's up with that giant leather rolling briefcase, fellas? I have to gate-check my backpack but you can roll something the size and weight of a microwave on board with no problem? It's like two leather cinder blocks stacked up with a handle. Those things don't exist anywhere else. What do you guys keep inside of those anyway? It can't be that important. And how much shit do you need?

As the agency that oversees pilots from now on, my FAA mandates that they get all of their crap into a fanny pack. You're just going to flip on the autopilot and start talking shit about the stewardesses anyway. Attorneys appearing before the Supreme Court don't lug that much stuff.

As far as the in-flight announcements, there will be no more of this “If you look out the left side of the plane you can see the Grand Canyon” bullshit. Besides the fact that only half the people are on the correct side, the wings block most of the view, and if you're in the middle you have to push aside the guy who's asleep in the window seat to see it. Only 15 percent of the passengers can take a gander at the landmark. And, oh boy, it's the Grand Canyon! Never seen a picture of that before. The announcements are never like “If you look to the right you'll see an oil rig on fire and, those of you in the aisle seats, Cheryl the stewardess is going to pull her top over her head.”

I also don't need to know how many knots the wind is coming out of the northeast at when I land in Burbank. There's nothing I can do with that information. “Oh, the northeast? Damn. I lost a bet to the guy in 21C. I said northwest.” Pilots do this because they know that we don't know what the fuck knots are. And guess what, pilots, we don't care.

Also cut it with all announcements coming from “the flight deck.” Not anymore. I decree that we now must return to calling it a
cockpit
. I know this is because the female pilots and stewardesses didn't want to work in something called the
cock
-pit. I don't get it. Anytime you want to give me a job in something called the “titty-room,” I'm there.

Plus I really don't need to know where the crew is based. No more, “On behalf of your Atlanta-based crew . . .” It's not like the passengers are thinking, “Oh, Atlanta. Good people down there.” Again, this is not information I can use. Just wake me up when I get to my destination or when you start serving booze.

And please stop apologizing. “We know you have a lot of choices when it comes to air travel. Thank you for choosing Delta.” It's like you're admitting your airline sucks. I don't do that at the end of my shows. “I know you have many choices in comedy. I want to thank you for coming here instead of seeing Dom Irrera at the Laugh-ateria.”

And finally, enough with the first names on the pilot announcements. It's part of the “everybody's a winner, there's no ranking” bullshit going on in our country. I want my pilots to be Captain Gilmour and First Officer Winters, not Captain Bill and First Officer Dan. These guys are in charge of my life, I don't want the guy who I could smoke a joint with. Between the first names and the “we know you have a lot of choices” apology, I'm not feeling very confident when the plane gets up in the air. Maybe that's the point. If we all fear that the flight crew has no idea what they're doing, we're more likely to double down on the in-flight booze.

Now, on to the passengers. I understand, but don't appreciate, that every flight has gone from business to casual. Remember when people would dress to travel? I'm not talking about a bow tie and a pocket square, but they didn't fly like it was laundry day and they were heading down to the coin-op. I've flown Southwest and seen a guy wearing cutoff sweats and flip-flops. It's not a Kenny Chesney concert in your backyard, you're leaving the state. Why aren't you at least wearing something with pockets? Don't you feel weird getting on a plane in a hockey jersey and huaraches? Part of the problem is that flights now are so cheap. You can get to Vegas for forty bucks. The people that were formerly taking a Greyhound or riding in the back of a pickup truck are now sitting next to you on an airplane. But the bigger problem is people have no regard for their fellow passengers.

And to that point, here are some new in-flight rules. Violating any of the following will now be grounds for opening the emergency door in midflight and tossing your ass out at thirty thousand feet, per my presidential decree.

1. IF YOU'RE IN FIRST CLASS YOU MUST DRINK.
More than once I've had the guy next to me on the plane who doesn't drink. I hate this because it really shines a light on my alcoholism. I have to assume he's an air marshal or a terrorist because it's insane to turn away free booze. This, by the way, is why I'm going to name Alec Baldwin as my TSA director. I've never flown with the man but I'm pretty sure that he'd strictly enforce my mandatory getting-shitfaced-in-first-class policy.