I will pass over the thrill of having the stewardess, about 4 hours into an 8-hour transatlantic flight, spill an entire glass of ice-cold sticky orange juice over one's shirt and trousers, and then start dabbing at one's crotch futilely, as if in some bad 60's porno film. Or being seated in front of patient zero for the next bird flu epidemic, as he hacked his lungs up repeatedly, and incredibly, for the entire flight. He was wizened and looked close to death, but had the beatific look of someone who has just infected the decadent western world with the new Andromeda strain and could now pass on to his heavenly reward. If I'm not around to blog next week, at least you will know why.
As it is getting on for 5am Paris time, and I have been up for 23 hours straight, I will quit and leave you with this picture:
Don't focus on the disturbing top row, in which the mother is strangling her child in quiet desperation before impact, at which point they will both be crushed by the fat girl behind them anyway. No, it's the panels below that are puzzling. Or at least one of them is. We get it: don't open the door if it's all smoky/fiery/watery out there. But WTF (excuse my French) is going on with the yellow exterior conditions? What is this panel supposed to represent? Neither my row neighbor nor the Tropicana-sloshing stewardess nor I could hazard a guess.
Your interpretations are welcome.
Oh yes. I am here in Gainesville, all safe and sound.
The plain people of Ireland: Shure you can't be referring to them birds as "stewardesses" anny more -- that'll get you in a whole heap o trouble. Tis derogatory, sure it is, don't you see.
ReplyDeleteWhipping Cats Management: I was wondering when ye rabble would show up again. But it's a fair cop. Put it down to exhaustion. Obviously, the term I was looking for was "air hostesses".
Clearly that is the spilled orange juice. NEVER open a door for spilled orange juice.
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