Love letter to Houston: Airports and ass-sweat
Last weekend, I spent some time in sunny Houston, in the great country of Texas (Texas is its own country, right?). Here is part one of my chronicle. I fly out of Pittsburgh on Thursday afternoon. There’s something about airports that I find both wonderful and awful. I love the constant chaos, all the people in a panic to get where they need to be. But do we really have to take our shoes off? The answer is FUCK YOU WE’RE AMERICA. As much of a hassle airport security is (let me tell you, I cried when I had to pack all my lube away in my checked luggage), I get it, okay, it’s for the good of the nation, or something. Did you know they have those weird scanning machines at the Pittsburgh airport? The ones that scan your whole body and peep at your naughty bits? You know someone somewhere is jerking off to those images right now OH GOD IT’S A PORN CONSPIRACY I HOPE I DON’T GET BLACKLISTED FOR THIS. Should I be sad I wasn’t asked to get scanned, or relived? (Just wait for my return flight ...