Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

Mostly rambles, few brambles

Your Connecting Flight Is Not My Concern

I’m sorry you were seated in a row behind me, but I can’t let you cut the line to deplane. I heard you the first time: your next flight is boarding now and, yes, my connection isn’t for over two hours. I assure you, though, my schedule is tighter, as I need this entire window to experience the full life cycle of the airport Chili’s.

I’ll take it by your vacant, irritated stare that you don’t entirely follow. Two hours and twelve minutes now might seem like an eternity for consuming a heap of deep-fried, hyper-American fare, but the ultra-gluttony is but a phase of the metamorphosis.

Ask this adorable little business cherub seated next to me, I’ve been muttering prayers to various chain-restaurant deities the entire flight. To the unenlightened it may sound like I’m just repeating different commercial jingles, but these mantras help purify my mind and my gastrointestinal tract for my pilgrimage.

The gorge, mind you, is still the main attraction. There will usually be some resistance; the waitstaff is rarely ready for my ceremonial tarp, though I’ll help them grasp its importance and what to expect in terms of sauce mist. I’ll order the Sextuple Dipper Dinner, which is two loaded Triple Dipper Dinners served in a trough. I’ll feel the collective eyes of the restaurant on me, probably something to do with my tarp, my cape, or my battle scream.

It will be a cathartic, utensil-less binge, true hedonistic, hurried chomping, as the procession of unmitigated flavor files into my mouth. Murmurs and coos will echo through the terminal. TSA agents may be alerted. My fingers, though, are only reaching for more of that super-concentrated scrumptiousness, connecting to every bite from the crispy exterior down to the cheesy pulp.

Carrying more baggage than just my carry-on now, I’ll totter out in a sodium stupor towards the nearest bathroom. To play it safe, I’ll wait until I can have the stall nearest to the defibrillator, in case Chili’s gives me more fight than I bargained for, or—rather—if I’ve bitten off more than I can poo.

Ninety minutes later, my legs are asleep on the toilet seat but my soul and large intestine have been thoroughly scraped of their impurities. It’s the tightest two-hours-and-fifteen minutes in American. Reborn, my excess cargo disregarded, I’m finally ready to fly off to Newark!

So, yeah, you’re probably going to miss your flight, maybe join me and this business cherub for lunch and eat your very own tub of Southwestern Egg Rolls?

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