At take-off, I’m gonna throw my arms in the air and yell “weeee.”.
The airport gives one such a sense or adventure, if one is inclined towards adventure and likes calling themselves one. From the very moment you enter the airport the excitement begins: will this be the day that I somehow look suspicious and I need to be strip searched. I don’t know what kind of training the TSA personnel go through, but I know one of the classes is “how to think you are the Ruler of the Airport.” of course that class has best lectures on “how to pretend you have power” and “how to make people think they are inferior.” must be a thankless job, no one appreciates what you’re doing and you have to smell a lot of feet.
It is a drag, for them, for us, for all but the idiots that ran a couple of planes into buildings and ended the freedom we used to have when flying. I miss the days when you could walk around and scope out babes from all countries. I fantasizes that a French woman would run into me, say “pardon” (in a cute French accent, not the thing a Governor does just before someone gets the chair) and then would need to hangs her flight and go wherever I was going so we could make love.
Nope, all I get is people in line at Starbuck’s that don’t understand others need to get through. And their accent is from New Jersey and really, why does anyone wan to look like Snooki. Ok, first boarding call. Please put me next to someone thin. I can’t take another trip like last time where the two large women, because of he theory of displacement, had me riding halfway into the aisle. Flight attendants are merciless wih this carts-I haven’t been able to play tennis since.
Going to the airport is always a trip (ha) early in the morning. Walking to the train at 5am, the only sound the clump clomping of the woman walking in front of me in her wooden clogs, her talking non-stop to a man who can only answer “mm-hmm” like a sitcom husband. He breaks this pattern by letting out a giant spit, the sound seemingly his only way to defy her incessant nonsense chatter.
The train stop is gloomy, not because there’s fog but everyone is going to work and they don’t look happy. The seats are filled with people in black pants and work boots, their polo shirts emblazoned with the company they probably wish they didn’t work for.
Everyone has headphones. Three guys around me bob thief heads up and down and mouth the word, I imagine they’re listening to rap. Most people have their eyes closed, trying to imagine their back in bed with their husband or boyfriend or someone they really want to sleep with.
One man who looks like a Middle Eastern Santa Claus boards the train. He adjusts himself and his large sack into the seat then pulls down his wool cap (which you gotta have in Los Angeles) then wraps a scarf around his entire head. I guess he’s just delivered his packages and really needs sleep. Rest well, I’ve got to get on the other train.
So I get off the bus and I see the above sign in the window but I thought it said “Tickle Lawyers.” Which made me laugh. What if lawyers were fun? What if lawyers were funny?
So let’s take a look. Picture this courtroom situation:
“Miss Silvers, you say that you were on the other side of town at 11:18?”
“Yes that’s correct.”
“Is it really? Getchie get chi goo. Come on now. Who’s the liar? Who’s the liar? I got your nose.”
Or maybe they would lower their fees if tickled. People are known to give in who are extremely ticklish.
“And the rate is $500 per hour. Ha ha. Ok $400. Ha haha ha ha. Okay $300. HAHAHAHAHA. Okay pro bono!”
And the biggest advantage that I see, is that a smiling, laughing, lawyer would probably not be able to contain the truth.
“Ok, seriously, you’re gonna lose. Cut your losses and file bankruptcy. I’ll have you out to my boat and we’ll have a nice sail.”
Lawyers always get a bad rap and I know some lawyers and they deserve it. Just kidding guys, remember you get a free magic show, I get free advice. But even they would admit that the profession could use a little humor. The judge with a giant prop gavel, maybe the DA talks through a ventriloquist dummy, turn that TV show from the 80s, Night Court, into the reality. Sure would make it easier when you ended up losing. And a little tickle would go a long way.
“Is this check-in?”
“Yes it is. Name?”
“I am pissed.”
“Is that your first name or your last?”
“Neither. My name is Steve and I am pissed off.”
“Well I’m sorry to hear that sir.”
“Yeah well can I talk to God. I mean…a plane crash?”
“I can tell you that God doesn’t control those things, he just set the wheels in motion.”
“Yeah well the big corporations set the wheels in motion and they’re getting bail outs.”
“You know, I really can’t help you, I can get your suite number for you.”
“Jeez, I do everything right: I pay my taxes, stay faithful to my wife, give my kids all the attention and things they need. And then BAM, gone in a second.”
“I really am sorry.”
“Well, how did you, uh, go?”
“Oh no, don’t tell me, in your sleep?
“Well sort of.”
“Sort of? Either you’re asleep or you’re awake?”
“Well my husband died, the love of my life, and I lay down and then joined him.”
“Oh come on! Like the Notebook, you died in bliss? And I turned down that invitation from the twenty-something to join the Mile High Club.”