Back from DFW, I wrote this on a plane on Friday....

Since I haven’t unloaded a profanity laced tirade in, oh, a couple of weeks, I thought I would release some of this pent-up anger.

• America West fucking sucks. No two ways about it. I’ve had to gate check a tiny suitcase simply because the gate agents and the flight attendants are too fucking afraid to enforce the carry-on restrictions. You know the one I’m talking about… the “two items, one of which must fit in the overhead compartment and one under the seat in front of you.” Apparently, that restriction doesn’t apply to the first fifty assholes who bring two suitcases each that could house Macaulay Culkin AND Jacko, and slide these Samsonite monoliths sideways into the overhead bin, immediately filling all the available space. Listen, either have a restriction or don’t, I don’t fucking care. But if you’re gonna claim you have one, make people follow it.

• And these seats are ridiculously narrow with virtually no leg room. I have an aisle seat, so my legs are stretched diagonally into the aisle, but the shithead behind me has decided to stretch his legs all the way under my seat until they’re in front of ME. Did you ever see the TV show where the guy rips out the front seat in a VW bug and sits in the backseat to drive? He’s behind me. Dick.

• Some fat broad is wearing way too much perfume too. Listen, if you’re so foul smelling that pelicans and stray cats are following you around, it’s probably time to just take a fucking bath, and not time to simply try to mask the odor of that decaying beached whale between your legs by emptying the duty-free shop of Obsession samples.

• Ahhh, I just enjoyed my in-flight meal of Lilliputian pretzels and Bloody Mary mix. Whenever I know that I’m not getting a substantive meal, I always attempt to get some sustenance by having this sodium-laden quasi-food. I figure it’s the culinary and dietary equivalent of eating some ketchup packets and a salt shaker, but at least I’m not chewing on the tattered, sweaty pillow left behind by a previous passenger.

• Oh, and what’s with these fucktards that get up from their seats as soon as the wheels leave the ground? The scolding voice of the stewardess is gonna have absolutely no effect on anyone dumb enough to think that it’s safe to walk around in a plane that is climbing on a thirty degree incline. Shoot the bastards.

• I had dinner in an amazing place last night. No menus. You had two choices, fried chicken or chicken-fried steak. Side dishes? Again, no choice. You got mashed potatoes, sausage gravy, creamed corn, buttermilk biscuits, and jalapenos, but all-you-could-eat on the sides. And every. Single. Thing. Was. Delicious. I could barely walk out the place, but that could be due to all the Shiners I drank. Nine people and the food bill was under $100. If you ever visit the Dallas area, check out Babe’s.

• One thing I learned about Texas was that restaurants that don’t have a liquor license allow you to BYOB. In California, they’d probably throw a conniption fit if you brought your own cooler of beer into a restaurant. Either that, or charge you a corkage fee for your Bud. Well, actually, almost every sit-down restaurant already has a beer/wine license. The better to charge you $5 a beer. But it’s pretty cool to sit down, order some food, and have a full cooler of Shiner Bock next to your table, especially if someone else paid.