Airplanes, man. They’re something else, aren’t they?

Getting on one is such a big production. You have to pack up all of your stuff into as small a case as possible, get to the airport an hour early, check in, go through security, wait around during the inevitable delays, and finally file through and find your seat.

And it’s all to ride a flying piece of metal that will get you somewhere much faster than any other means of transportation.

Then you top it all off with the fact that MAGIC is used to make this giant tin can fly. I mean wow, real-life magic! It’s something else I tell you, something else.

For some reason though, planes just don’t sit well with me. Besides the fact that fucking magicians are operating this megaton machinery (are they even unionized?), there is a sense of hopelessness when you’re up in the air. Anything can happen, and there is nothing you can do to stop it. If the plane is going down, there is absolute zero chance of survival, unless you’re Chance Harper, of course.

TIME TO FLYYY!

Sure, now here come the assholes that say, “you have more of a chance of dieing in a car than a plane!” or “odds are better to be eaten by a shark than to die in a plane crash!” OK, well A) I am in control of the car, so it is of my own accord, B) I actually want to go out via being chomped in half by a Great White, so there’s that, and C) You’re a whopper of a douchebag, so yeah, you’re the malt ball of douchebags. Not a good thing to be, Ahab.

But the meat of this column has nothing to do with magicians, Great White Sharks or Fox’s 1995 show, “Strange Luck.” And it DEFINITELY is not going to be about Ventriloquists!

A picture of Chance Harper … for any uncultured street urchins that may be reading

No, what I aim to do here is spin some yarns from my days aboard these wand-powered vessels of the air, comment on all things to do with flying, and maybe even write a little fiction along the way.

So, put your tray in its up right position, buckle your seatbelt and be sure to grab your stewardess’ sweet, sweet ass as she walks by …

TALES FROM THE AIR!

People That Talk To You

In general, I’m a guy that likes to keep to himself. When I am by myself doing something, such as going to buy a sandwich, sitting in class, or FLYING ON AN AEROPLANE, I like to get it done with as little fuss as possible. What that means is that I’ll go about my business in silent fashion unless prompted or FORCED into a situation.

I’m not the guy that is looking to start up a conversation with a stranger, because I am perfectly content chilling by myself, thinking, reading, or whatever else have you.

It’s on these flying contraptions that I tend to find myself disturbed the most, because of the fact that you must sit elbow-to-elbow with one or two people. Now, if it’s one of my buddies, that’s cool obviously. I’ll harass them during the entire flight, especially if it is there first flight or something like that.

But when I have to sit next to some peon that immediately starts jabbering and doesn’t stop until the end of the flight, then we have problems. This has happened to me on more than one occasion, but there is one that is quite memorable. I believe it was freshman or sophomore year of college, and I was flying home for some sort of vacation.

Before I get into this, I want you to know that this part is supposed to serve as more of PSA than something to get your jollies off of. Do not become one of these obnoxious people. Sure, it’s good to be nice and all with a conversation, but some people just really want to be left alone to relax and read on a plane, believe it or not. They don’t want some schmuck going on about some inane story that has zero relevance to them.

So, this girl (she must have been like 14 or 15, which is a bit too old for my liking) sits down next to me, and within five minutes of sitting down, she begins her incessant chattering, about only god knows what. And she did not shut up the entire flight. I can’t remember one thing she was talking about, and I was giving her the Swingers smile and nod the whole time. But no, she didn’t take the hint, she kept talking and talking and talking about herself.

I should have just blasted her right in the middle of her soliloquy with something like, “Guess what bucktooth? No one gives a shit! So shut yer god damn yap!” or with Stanley Goodspeed’s strange line in The Rock, “Whattaya say we cut the chit-chat, A-HOLE!” But noooooo, I’m too nice of a guy.

Why can’t I just say “asshole?”

Now, this kind of situation is not one you will only find on a plane. No, it can happen anywhere and has surely happened everywhere. All it takes is a Bad Storyteller. You know the person. We all know them. It’s the guy or girl who tells a story that should take no more than two minutes, but lasts about 10-15 because they have to give you the play-by-play of every minute detail that occurred. These selfish pricks seem to have no clue that you are crawling out of your skin to escape this story. This tedious torture is quite possibly the most painful thing you can endure in day-to-day life.

So, to all the storytellers out there, listen up. If your story isn’t drop-dead funny, and if it is going to last longer than two fucking minutes, you better get your act fucking together, pal. No one wants to listen to your goofy shit.

And please, don’t trap people on airplanes with a story about how your Grandma makes the best Candy Apples or how your dog, Archimedes, is the coolest dog in the world. Please, god, please.

Elvis Guy

Now here’s a story that I could tell you in two minutes if we were talking face-to-face, but since this is part of a written story, I may go into a little more detail for the chuckle factor. I know, I’m a hypocrite.

Myself, Paulie Cancun and Fishman took a Spring Break trip to Orlando to go to Disney back in our sophomore year of college with a couple of GAY MEN. Ok, so now that that’s out there, you can save your Brokeback Mickey jokes or whatever other clever pun you came up with it.

One of the said sexual homos was the one who literally came out of the closet in Ian Valentine’s groundbreaking column, "Ian, All the Rumors You Have Been Hearing, They Are True, I am Gay."

I don’t know what is funnier, the actual picture or the fact that Valentine has actual hair.

Now, obviously, we never would have agreed to this trip if we knew that this guy was gay in the first place. I mean jeez, do we look like the trio that wants an AIDS infestation on our hands? I think not.

I’m kidding, alright? We didn’t really care that he was gay and that he was bringing along his boy toy. We collectively have no problem with gays here at ZubazPants.com. Heck, Paul Cancun even went to the gay bar a few times at college! And the couple actually didn’t want anything to do with us on the trip anyway, seeing as how they were a couple of high-brow motherfuckers and we were, well, Jim Byrne, Matt Fishman and Paul Cancun.

But I’m getting sidetracked here. Elvis Guy.

On the way back to Buffalo, we had a stopover in Cincinnati, OH. We were sitting around, as bored as you would imagine someone could possibly be in an airport in a hellhole like Cincinnati.

Then something happened however, that would change our lives forever.

Or at least for the next few hours.

We saw a guy in the airport bar that was dressed like Elvis, but actually looked a bit more like Hugh Jackman if I remember correctly. Obviously, we felt the need to capture this guy on film, so Paulie Cancun went up to him to pose for a picture.

Sadly, this was still the Stone Age, so the best thing we could use in this situation was some shitty disposable camera. And to make things even worse, there wasn’t even any film left in the camera, although that was unbeknownst to us at the time. I can tell you this however, the pose was great, and the Elvis dude even pulled out the patented snarl to take it to the next level.

It was time to get on the plane though, so we bid adieu to Elvis and headed to our gate. Much to my chagrin, I would be sitting by myself on this flight, whereas Paul and Fish and the Wondertwins were each sitting in pairs.

Of course, I knew I’d get stuck next to some asshole storyteller, and would have to listen to them flap their yap for an hour and a half.

And I was right. But little did I know that it would end up being a glorious situation.

So, of all people, the Elvis Guy makes his way onto the plane and into the aisle of the plane. Cancun and Fishman looked back at me in a laughing frenzy, and I thought the situation was funny as well, but as soon as I saw Elvis Guy, I knew, I just fucking knew, that the guy would be sitting next to me. How awkward could it get? Fifteen minutes ago we were asking him for a picture, now he was about to buddy up with me on the plane.

Of course, he comes up, checks the seat numbers and plops right down next to me. “Fucking great,” I thought to myself. “Of all the luck.”

Little did I know however, that this guy was one of the funnier fuckers you could hope to be sat next to. The guy busted out the “Skymall” magazine that is in the back of every seat and went through the entire thing making comments on virtually each and every product. And he was actually hilarious. This Hugh Jackman-Elvis hybrid had me in stitches, no joke.

But then we hit some serious turbulence near the Buffalo Airport, and Elvis Guy’s mood changed dramatically for the worse.

If you’re familiar with ZubazPants.com, you might know that some of us consider our own Matt Fishman to be somewhat of a paranoid guy. For instance, in this exact situation, as soon as the turbulence hit, Fishman let loose his classic phrase, “THIS IS IT!” As in, this is it, it’s all over, we’re going down! Well, Fishman’s paranoia was nothing compared to Elvis Dude’s. One minute the guy is cracking jokes about his Uncle wearing a monocle from Skymall magazine to a party, the next it looks as if he is about to shit his pants while scaring everyone in a 15-foot radius by yelling out things like, “Shit! We’re all gonna die! FUCK! It’s all over!”

I was shocked! There were little kids with their mothers and fathers all around, and obviously, there were getting unpleasantly excited by Elvis Guy’s pessimistic diatribes. I’ll admit that the turbulence was pretty damn bad, some of the worst I have ever experienced in my near 100 flights, but this guy seemed to truly believe that he was going to die within minutes. I managed to stay cool, calm and collected, while this guy started acting like Wolverine on a bad acid trip.

I’m still surprised he didn’t start going into seizures in his seat. The guy’s heart must have been racing wildly, as he was bouncing all around in his seat, trying to squirm out of his dire situation at any cost. I’m just glad he didn’t try to make love to anyone near by, to get that last nut off before he died.

When we finally landed, the guy reverted to his cool as a cucumber form, but you could still see the sweat soaked into his shirt and some dripping down his forehead.

When the five in our party headed to the baggage claim, we saw Elvis Guy for the last time in our lives. I wonder where he is right now. Hopefully freaking out on a flight while sitting next to that obnoxious storyteller girl from before …

Journal from Florida

In December of 2005, myself, Nick Camia, Damien Trilogy and Losee went down to Miami, FL for the weekend and for a Buffalo Bills-Miami Dolphins game. Originally, I had envisioned writing something about this trip like I did for the Bills-Dolphins game from Buffalo in October of that same year. But the trip pretty much ended up being a 24/7 bender right from the start, so that plan quickly went out the window.

However, I did take down a few notes when I had all the intentions of making this a full-blown feature. This notes were taken down on the flight from New York to Florida, and read as follows:

Florida

Flight-

Coach

Bush on Transformers

Laffy Taffy – what will they think

Clearly, some explanations are in order.

The “Florida” is simply my heading for the notes. You know, to separate it from the other pages, like the ones headed, “Hasselhoff,” More Douchebags,” and “Christ on a Bicycle.”

“Flight,” is just another subhead. Nothing exciting here. Just making sure I didn’t get it confused with the section that I thought would be titled, “Damien Trilogy and Losee tag team a chick and high-five in the middle of the DP.”

“Coach,” is, of course, about the Craig T. Nelson vehicle that I watched on those great Jet Blue TVs during the flight. At this point, you may have realized that I am a bit obsessed with that show. I don’t know why, but I am. The character “Dauber” may be the most intriguing/fascinating person (fictional or real) in the history of the United States of America. Well, it’s either him or the host of Nick Arcade.

Since we’re already talking about Coach, I want to share with you something that a person wrote about the hit TV show on jumptheshark.com. This is just too funny, and I had to squeeze it in somewhere. Here ya go: “Coach never jumped. It was a heartwarming analysis of Middle America and its struggles, exemplified at its zeitgeist by Craig T. Nelson's iconic performance. Does Coach Fox vent his anger, reacting to the outside world around him (crumbling as it is) or does he lower his defenses with his beloved? Dawber, again is the sum of perfection in his reflection of the little guy trying to make it big, the American Dream played full scale in athleticism. Though no Emmys were forthcoming for this show, one could argue it was robbed by an inattentive voting board. Lastly, Shelly Fabares was outstanding; she was the voice of reason, of kindness, of beauty and intellect in raw pool of emotions and hijinx. Ms. Fabares played her role with aplomb. To top it all off, Mr. Nelson delivered his lines with aplomb, wit and quickness. A stellar show which never jumped the shark."

I’m sorry that was just too funny to resist. If you have no idea what “jump the shark” means, go to the site after you’re done with this article and check it out. OK, back on topic.

I’ll be honest, I have no idea what “Bush on Transformers” is about, but I remember thinking that it was hilarious. Fuck, I wish I could remember what that meant.

The Laffy Taffy segment is one I definitely recall though. I was watching MTV Hits or some shit on the Jet Blue TV, and saw the “Laffy Taffy” video come on. I watched the whole thing and thought to myself, “Oh those wacky black folks, what will they think of next?!?” Come on, “Laffy Taffy?” That’s just hilarious.

Yeah, and that’s it.

Over the next 72 hours, I was sloshed for about 68 of them, and was not in the mood to be taking notes. It was vacation, all right? Get off my back.

MADDEN FICTION

Every day I wonder why John Madden refuses to fly on a plane to get to his various destinations across the country. Instead, the big, red-eye browed oaf drives around the country in his Madden Cruiser from football stadium to football stadium. Well, I’d like to imagine that Madden had an experience on an airplane similar to Elvis Dude’s, but 100 times worse.

I can see it now …

Madden is sitting next to his long-time buddy Pat Summerall on flight from LaGuardia that’s bound to LAX. All is well as the plane soars over Kansas, about halfway through the trip.

And then it happens.

Summerall looks over to Madden, who is sitting in the window seat, and offers him his bag of salted peanuts.

“John, would you like my extra bag of—“ … he stops dead in his tracks as he looks into Madden’s eyes, something akin to looking into the depths of hell at this very moment.

Madden’s head is back as far as it can go in his headrest. In fact, it looks as if Madden is trying to jam his head into the seat, that’s just how hard he is pressing back. His face is ghostly-white, and his mouth is ajar. The dead look in his eyes causes Summerall to stammer …

“Joh-Joh-Joh-John … are-are-are you all right?”

Madden’s head turns ever so slowly to meet Sumerall face-to-face. He moves closer to Sumerall, until only about two inches separate their faces.

That’s when shit hits the fan completely.

Madden draws his head back again and puffs up his cheeks as his entire body begins to shake all about. The shaking becomes more violent as the seconds pass, and now Madden is violently slamming about in his seat, smashing the tray to pieces while sending his Ginger Ale flying into the air.

Summerall unbuckles his belt and falls back into the aisle. “JOHN! WHAT’S WRONG! CAN WE GET SOME HELP HERE! PLEASE! OH, GOD HELP ME!”

Now, Madden has the entire row of seats to flop around in, and that is exactly what he is doing. As Madden slams back and forth between the seats in his row, Summerall notes the horrified expression on everyone’s faces. He looks over at Frank Gifford, who was sitting across the aisle from Madden and Summerall, and observes that Gifford has urinated himself.

At that moment, four members of the flight-crew come charging down the aisle. The first one tries to coax Madden out of his seat, but Madden will have none of it. His freak-out continues in full force, and is just about to spill out of the seats and into the aisles.

The flight-crew look as if that is the last thing they wanted to happen. The second one jumps on Madden, trying to keep him in one place, but he is simply bucked off and sent flying about two rows back into the lap of a formerly jolly, bald man. The man screams like a little girl, and cries about never flying again.

The remaining three flight-crew members all jump on Madden at once, and pin him to the floor of the aisle. One grabs a wooden spoon and gets Madden to bite down it, but this proves to have been the wrong move.

Madden becomes more enraged, spits out the spoon, and bench presses the three off of him while bouncing back to his feet. He staggers around with a demonic snarl on his face, and it looks as if all hell is truly about to break loose. What happened prior was just the appetizer to this main course of doom.

The big man staggers over to Gifford, sniffs the air, and is seemingly disgusted by the smell of urine. He shakes his head insanely from side to side, as spew flies everywhere, and then grabs Gifford by his shirt and lifts him into the air.

Madden roars like a lion on the Serengeti and looks like he is about to hurl Gifford through a window when Summerall comes from behind and smashes a fire extinguisher against the back of Madden’s head.

Madden staggers forward and drops Gifford. He turns around to see that it was Summerall who did this, and proceeds to drop to his knees with tears welling up in his eyes.

Summerall believes that the threat is over, and relaxes for a moment with a sigh of relief.

But then he notices that dead look is still in Madden’s eyes, and he raises the extinguisher over his head and brings it down with great force across Madden’s forehead.

Madden is out cold.

Madden never flies again.

Gifford needs new pants.

The End.

Well, that about does it for "Flying Metal!" If you want me to scrounge up some more tales from the air, I'd be glad to do so. Just shoot me an e-mail or hit us up in the feedback forum. In the meantime ... I leave you with this ...

Questions or comments? E-mail Jim Byrne at BuffaloByrne@gmail.com