Traveling in Relative Hell.
Here’s pictorial evidence that I’m indeed the family giant. We arrived with Scott aka “Mr. Golden Underwear” complaining about business class, while the rest of us sat in veal class. My oldest sister, who at 4’8″ qualifies as a little person, yet would not qualify to ride most rides in an amusement park, even had no leg room. United doesn’t need to have goons beat us up on their planes for not allowing us to be bumped from an overbooked flight, when their cabin designers can inflict pain to passengers more efficiently and pervasively. Collectively, we packed enough stuff to be sailing in a container ship with enough wardrobe changes to outfit a small European nation. Like the Titanic, we boarded our ship in Southampton, England. I anticipate that in no time, a poor street urchin will want to sketch me naked, as he falls in love with me. As I’m muster Station certified, if the ship goes down, I’m sure that I could muscle my way into the lifeboat ahead of most of these geezers on holiday. In the event of an emergency, not only does your seat cushion double as a floatation device, but the lead actor from the ship’s version of My Fair Lady will double as a tender pilot. At least as we will sink, he’ll sing “The rain in Spain’ the whole time.
Rubber Chicken 