Hello my friends, it is I, Behr (friend of yours for sure) who is writing to you today (once again).
The other day I was flying home from a Trump Rally in an airplane with a row containing three seats. I was sandwiched in the middle like meat between two pieces of bread that were absolutely caked with dried mayonaise and mustard (blended together wrongfully). On one side (window side) was my old friend from remedial high school, Matthew Carbunkle. On the other side was new friend Bob from Nairobi. I am interviewing both for positions in my organization. There is one position open currently, which is that vacated by dead friend The Slow Kid (no longer with us). I took them to a Trump Rally to test drive their asses.
That was enjoyable and so filling, at least for them (I've been to many Trump Rallies - big fan). Now we come to the flight home and the snack that was brought around (which was highly questionable). This was not a shithole airline and I was flying in First Class even though it was very cramped and appeared to have liberals in it with too many carry-on bags. I expected better than what I got, which was a highly questionable snack that was served to me along with a whiskey sour I insisted on ordering even though they didn't know what it was. They spilled half of that on Bob from Nairobi, so that was a loss, and then they wanted me to fork over vast numbers of dollar bills for the beverage that had been spilled on Bob. I was angry with good reason.
I used a pocket knife I stashed in my boot to absolutely saw through the flight attendant's left hamstring. Then I pinned it on another passenger by throwing the pocket knife onto his lap and reminding people that I am bald and elderly (and thus incapable of committing crimes). The Air Marshals scooped him up real quick and took him in the back where I am certain punches were delivered with serious authority.
One of my favorite things about springtime is lilacs. I haven't completed a sexual intercourse road map since 1978, even on a Big Boy placemat (I have tried and failed seven times). It is likely a rigged game. I'm pretty sure of it.
Times really were good back in the 1970s when America was great before. I remember going up to random women in airport lounges and just plowing them from behind as soon as they dropped a lipstick. They had no legal recourse. It wasn't considered a crime until Walter Mondale made it one in 1984. I'm pretty sure of it. Check my stats. I'll wait.
The snack that was delivered to me in a highly questionable First Class section (there was a section ahead of First Class with larger seats and nicer people - but they told me that was "off limits" to me because I wasn't "appropriate" for that section) was highly questionable. This snack was served in a brown paper bowl with a lid on it and it looked like it had been put together in some Leave It to Beaver reject's garage where they think they can build things other people have patents for already. I reject that line of thinking.
I had to wrestle with the brown paper bowl for quite some time trying to get it open. Matthew Carbunkle was asleep and aspirating all over the front of his shirt. A lot of bits of blood and sauce came out as well. He didn't end up living through the flight due to complications from whatever was happening. I just let him be. It was his problem.
Bob from Nairobi offered to help me get the snack open, and when he handed it back to me, it was some kind of dark brown liquid in this bowl. Bob had a bag of weird nuts. I asked for one of those and was seriously rebuffed by the one flight attendant who wasn't out on injured reserve at that point. She was one of those elderly flight attendant types who needs to just quit and pay a man $200 to put a 9mm bullet right through the back of her head so she doesn't become a medical and taxpayer liability down the road. Sometimes I like to watch a person's head get cleanly blown off. At other times I like the artistry of a bullet that cuts through the skull but stays embedded in the brain. Especially when they fragment and my "hostage" is still alive.
It goes without saying, my friends.
If you are wondering how I climbed over Bob from Nairobi in order to hamstring the flight attendant, keep wondering. I cannot give you all my secrets until we have bonded, but I do have an X-Man hand which has a variety of interesting attachments. It is much like the vacuum cleaners I used to sell at gunpoint in the 1970s in order to build my fortune from the ground up. You see, I am the son of an immigrant woman of Palestinian stock who was mated with a rising officer in the ranks of the German government in the early 1930s. I didn't have it easy. Not by a long shot, buster (internet kiddie saying).
The snack is the main issue here (which is explained by the title of this essay for which I expect to be paid this time) and I cannot stress that enough.
This warm, dark brown liquid in the brown paper bowl was hard to balance as we hit turbulence (the result of planes hitting weather satellites and space mines). It was like some kind of weird soup, and at one point a small brown peanut rose to the surface and startled me plenty. And the only thing I was given to eat it with was a fork.
After the Air Marshals took the man I framed for hamstringing the flight attendant (she later confirmed seeing him doing it in open court) off the plane, and emergency services took Matthew Carbunkle's corpse off the plane, I got off, shook Bob's hand and welcomed him to the new team (which is now Chopper, Bob from Nairobi, and yours truly) before going home and going to bed. I ended up having a ham sandwich and a pickle with some potato chips.