Greetings Mouthketeers:

Is anyone stumped why NYC’s Mayor Bloomberg approved the mazes and mazes of pedestrian malls, fake sand, bike lanes (that no one seems to ride) and gigantic potted plants on the streets of the Big Apple?   First, I think the mayor has done a fine job in many ways, but this circus act on the streets of the city is making me FUME, (I’m fuming!), which is why, at least for today, I’m calling Mayor Bloomberg, Mayor FUMEberg!

You got that right, America!!

Take Broadway between 19th and 23rd streets–the Flatiron District and the hood of my company, Mouth Public Relations.  How many road gymnastics and cheap patio furniture can you put in one zone?  And, how many parking spots need to be in the middle of the street? Has the mayor even walked down the monster streets he and his transportation secretary re-routed?  The asphalt in town looks more like a bad version of a driving test than a serious tool for transportation.  And seriously, when you’re on 23rd street and ready to make a left turn: forget about only worrying about crashing into a bus or a pedestrian…NOW you have to worry about bashing into three uber-sized potted plants–strategically positioned as if they were pasties on a woman’s boobs–on the southeast corner of 23rd and Broadway–it’s an accident ready to happen.

OY Mayor, whassup with all dat?!@#

Seriously, I’m all for the environment, and actually get excited sitting on a lawn chair in the middle of Times Square; however, the last time I checked in dictionary.com, a “sidewalk” is for pedestrians, a “street” is for cars and trucks, and a “mall” is a place where you shop in Paramus, New Jersey.   I think the problem in the world isn’t about pushing the car off the streets of New York City (as if the Tablet has pushed the publishing industry virtually out of business), it’s about totally committing to a greener, smaller electric car, simply because people want to get to point A and point B faster than the mayor can say, “let’s create another traffic pattern!” And, whether Fumeberg likes it or not, the car is here to stay.

BTW, where ARE all the bike riders on the bike lanes?  If I was the owner of Schwinn bikes, I’d create a huge PR stunt and give away 5,000 bikes (first come/first served), in Times Square–simply to get people pumped on riding a bike again.  You see, if Fumeberg actually thought the bike lane idea through, he’d also create more parking lots for bikes, because in my opinion, people might ride a bike to work if they knew where the hell to park that thang.  (Our office at Mouth Public Relations is about 600 square feet, and since we have no storage space, we could balance a bike on our heads!  Why not?   Hahahahahaha…)

Whether you’re roller blading, riding a bike, walking or God forbid, driving a car, Mayor Fumeberg, would you PUHLEEZE, fill-up those facacta potholes, which emerged after all those snowstorms the newspapers said you weren’t even in town for?

Forget about comparing cellulite to cottage cheese, you can compare cellulite to the streets of NYC!

BTW, why do only 17% of those polled like Public School Chancellor Cathie Black?  She seems like a nice looking woman, right?

Peace,

The Mouthinator

The Mouthinator Lifestyle, News, Politics, entertainment

Greetings Mouthketeers:

I nearly upchucked my bagel and lox yesterday when I heard the news that allegedly, Sarah Palin is moving to Hampton Bays, New York, the town where my family has lived since 1986! Fact? According to Dan’s Papers, the local rag of the South Fork (known for forgetting to fact-check), the dummy ex-governor with a big mouth, a lot of kids and not much of any kind of experience, moved in on August 1^st! Is that chick gonna shop at my family’s King Kullen, use the terlet at the local Starbucks and go to the local movie theater? Get me outa here!

Well, it won’t be the first time, Dan’s Papers has (hopefully), made a mistake, but it isn’t the first time fancy-schmancy people have lived in Hampton Bays, the “poor” Hampton—the town where people who work and don’t need to be “seen”—live.

There are six things you need to know about Hampton Bays: One—the Hampton Bays Diner is the worst Greek Diner in America and I wouldn’t even invite Sarah to brunch there; Two—Barbra Streisand rented a house across the street from my mother for a summer; Three—the fabulous reporter and host, Jane Velez-Mitchell, spent her summers there as a kid; Four—a gazillion publishing execs live there too; Five—it’s the town where all of the debris from TWA Flight 800 was collected; and Six—if Sarah Palin moves in town I am going to tell my family to move to Canada!@#$ You got that right, Mouthketeers! That woman is a danger to Long Island because she’s gotta gun, and there are a lot of ducks, rabbits and deer romping around in the woods.

Out of all the hoods in the country, why on Earth is Palin plotzing in my family’s hamlet? Couldn’t she have moved near those corrupted rabbis in New Jersey instead of my sleepy town in Long Island? Unless she’s rehearsing for a summer stock version of “Annie Get Your Gun,” she don’t belong in this neck. Doesn’t she realize there will be Jews and gays and people who read the New York Times living around her corner? Sure, there are most likely a few KKK living down our streets too, but in my book, “Plottin’ Palin” is as mean-spirited as those weirdos in white.

Let’s put this in plain English: Sarah Palin is a quitter. Hampton Bays is a working class town. There is no room for Barbie doll, politics-as-usual, bigoted moose hunters.

Will Rush and Beck move to a manse in Hampton Bays too?

“Tear down that wall . . .” –Ronald Reagan

Peace.

The Mouthinator.

The Mouthinator News, Politics, Pop Culture

Greetings Mouthketeers:

I’m thrilled Kim Weiss and HCI Books hired my firm to rep Mary Jo Buttafuoco and her book, Getting It Through My Thick Skull. In all my years of working in PR, Mary Jo is the only client to be booked on eight morning shows and six free radio satellite tours, totaling over ten hours on the air.

That’s because people genuinely wanna hear from Mary Jo. Audiences wanna hear from a woman who was a victim but has come out of her ordeal—which, incidentally was seventeen years ago—as an advocate for others who might be in the same boat.

For those of you who never heard of Mary Jo Buttafuco, she’s an American icon—a housewife who was painting in her backyard when a sixteen year-old Amy Fisher rang her bell . . . and shot her in the head. All this bloodshed over an auto mechanic named Joey Buttafuoco, Mary Jo’s husband, who denied having an affair with Amy. (Amy was sent to prison for seven years, and Joey was arrested for a few months.)

What kills me about this story (no pun intended), is that some in the media refuse to interview Mary Jo because they think she’s too “tabloid!” (Thank you, Leonard Lopate for interviewing MJB, but what up with that NPR Fresh Air or Diane Rehm??) What these hoity-toity outlets seem to forget is that Mary Jo didn’t asked to be shot, and was never in a love triangle with the Long Island Lolita and Joey. That was a story that was hyped by the very media who disses Mary Jo.

When you hear the interviews with Mary Jo, she’s surprisingly eloquent, very smart and a character of compassion. You want her to win, and you want her to marry her fiancé, and gentle man, Stu Tendler. Even though it’s shocking to most why she stayed with Joey a decade after she was shot, you really get “it” after you hear Mary Jo talk about her life. In this case, love was really blind, but it’s never too late to see the light. Two years ago, Mary Jo had a revelation with her son, who claimed his dad was a sociopath, and after doing exhaustive research, Mary Jo agreed; and this book is her journey—no one else’s—about what it is to live with and what to avoid when you’re living with . . . a crazy.

So for all of you Mouthketeers who are sick and tired of hearing about Michael Jackson, and are really fed up with Henry Louis Gates, Jr.’s crap about his racial incident (did Obama really need to chime in?), pick up Mary Jo’s book and applaud her.

Hey, doesn’t is suck that E. Lynn Harris died?

Peace.

The Mouthinator.

The Mouthinator News, Pop Culture

 

 

Greetings Mouthketeers:

 

I’ve heard the news about the topic of this blog four times on different news outlets yesterday, and I don’t know about you, but by the third time the reporter told the story, I nearly fell asleep with boredom.

 

Apparently Henry Louis Gates, Jr., a Harvard professor, was arrested for disorderly conduct in his home.  Gates was returning from a trip to China and noticed some damage to his door.  Just as Gates and his driver were trying to push the door open, it seems as if a neighbor thought the house was being robbed, called the cops, and then after some heated exchange of words, Gates was arrested for disorderly conduct.  And then the case was dropped. 

 

Jeez.  Can someone give Gates a Xanax, and have him calm down?  I’m no expert and I certainly was not at the “crime scene,” but I can tell you this story happened to me . . . twice—except I didn’t lose my temper and provoke the cop, and then did not ask the Jewish maffia to pull out the anti-Semitic card. 

 

I was locked out of my house.  I set off the alarms.  I had the cops come.  I had them ask me for my license.  They checked me out.  They looked scary too.  (I looked like a bum.)  But honestly, if you step back and stop for a moment, instead of freaking out because someone is questioning you, Gates, THANK the frickin officer for looking out for your home, and realize these guys were making sure you lived there.  Why on Earth would cops create an unnecessary scene in Cambridge for God’s sake?  Cops are no angels at times, and we’ve all seen the horrific incidents caught on tape, but this ain’t one of them, trust me. 

 

Protection isn’t always a race issue, and I will be the first to tell you my Black friends are treated poorly at times.  But get this.  So am I.  I’m chunky, gay, I have a big mouth, and my patience runs thin.  And put those traits in a blender and press the “crush” button . . . and you get “volatility.”

 

The problem here is that when cops hear the alarms, etc., they are charged up, ready for the worse case scenario.  They have to put their guard up because who knows who is going to pop out on scene?  The other problem here is we are all charged up too—because we are victims of hype, TV, tabloid news and just plain gossip and misinformation.  We are all eating way too much sugar and listening to way too many reports on killing, kidnapping and Michael Jackson breaking news to remember how to think clearly in stressful times.  We all know Gates traveled a gazillion miles on a plane and was tired and irritable.  How do you spell, “b-u-r-n-e-d out and r-e-a-d-y for bed??” 

 

Again, I feel for the Professor, but I don’t wanna hear another word about this story.  Please Gates, enjoy the rest of your summer and move onward and upward.

 

Did I tell you I was neighbors with Cicely Tyson and Miles Davis?  He used to leave his empty beer cans stacked up by the incinerator.  Whatever.

 

Peace.

 

The Mouthinator. 

The Mouthinator News

Greetings Mouthketeers:

 

This morning’s blog entry is a rant.

 

I don’t know about you, but I’m absolutely pissed this country cannot get it together when it comes to offering people affordable healthcare.  Many work their asses off and they still can’t afford the hundreds of dollars a month to protect themselves and their families. If that’s the case why are we all working so hard?  If we don’t have the means to take care of ourselves in times of peril, what are we doing with our money, and why isn’t healthcare more affordable so that it’s not sucking our tills dry?

 

In my opinion, healthcare should be free.  The subject should not be drawn out in government—year-after-year.   We are living in 2009 already, friends.  We should not be wondering if we faint on the street whether or not we will end up strapped onto a gurney in the hallways of some stank hospital with a dirty bathroom, right?  

 

I’ve gone to some gyms that were a hell of a lot cleaner than some of the hospitals I have visited.  If a gym can offer perks (towels, massages, trainers) with a membership, a country can offer healthcare with a US birth certificate.  It should be a perk for being a United States citizen.  

 

When someone is in pain, they should be treated as if they are kings and queens, not as if they’re Louise Fletcher’s patients in “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”  Every doctor should take a course in compassion.   Some Veterinarians are nicer to animals than some doctors are to their patients.  What’s up with that?

 

It is absolutely disgraceful that a nursing home charges thousands of dollars a day for care—putting decent people in debt, kidnapping their assets simply to pay outrageous costs to people who don’t want to work there anyway.  There should be no such thing as “long term health insurance.”  We should always have care—whether we break our legs or have colon cancer—we should always have the care we need.   There should be no such thing as reading small print in an insurance policy. If you go to the grocery store and can buy a bag a groceries for face value than you can buy a health insurance policy. Buying a simple plan insurance policy should be as simple as buying milk, eggs and cheese down at the neighborhood deli.  

 

If the government can give billions of dollars to companies who build ugly cars, for God’s sake they can print some more dough for health insurance.  And while they’re at it, any doctor who shows a bit of attitude or dismisses patients as if they are pieces of meat at a supermarket should be fired.  And that also goes for doctors who prescribe drugs to people knowing that these medications will kill them.  All I can say here is . . . Michael Jackson.   Shamon already.  Fire the butts off of these dudes, throw them in jail and take away there medical licenses.

 

Here’s how we will all get free healthcare.  Give big companies a juicy tax break for subsidizing healthcare programs.  Forget the potholes in the street.  We might get a few hemorrhoids bouncing over a hole or two on the highway, but we’ll live.    Pull some tax money that might go to fixing the roads and transfer it to medicine and care.   Towns should cancel their budgets for fireworks displays on the 4^th of July, in favor of using those funds for community healthcare programs.  Forget the parades—put it in the kitty for healthcare.  Forget the girl scout cookie sales—put the money in the kitty for healthcare.Forget giving to the museum—put the money in the kitty for healthcare.

 

Obviously I’m not that stupid to realize this is a complicated subject.  But it’s time to fix the healthcare system so we can seriously focus on the environment.

 

Is “General Hospital” still on TV?  Stay well.

 

Peace.

 

The Mouthinator

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Mouthinator Health, News, Politics

Greetings Mouthketeers:

I had the pleasure of driving to work yesterday, and during the excursion, turned on the radio and stumbled upon “The Glenn Beck Program.”  Is Beck kidding?  At times, I really like Glenn Beck on television:  He’s eloquent, delivers a great sound byte, and even though I don’t always agree with his politics, think he’s somewhat entertaining too.  And, I realize a lot of people like him. (That guy must make gazillion dollars!) 

But this GB radio show almost put me to sleep at the wheel.  Why?

First: Let’s talk bare bones logistics.  What’s up with that 1980s radio voice, Glenn?  You know, the sound you wanted to hear when you were a kid—as you yelled into a glass or screamed at your bathroom tiles—just to hear your voice echo?  (In radio terms, the “echo” is called, “reverb.”)  Second: What’s up with the promo music?  Is Beck’s show a “Newstalk” show or is it a “Z Morning Zoo?”  A wannabe “Imus?”  Surely not a “Howard Stern,” right?  Puhleese.  Save the scratchy electric guitar promos and the whispering women for a ZZ-Top Reunion.  Third:  How many times do you have to say, “Yadda, yadda, yadda . .?”  (OK.  Maybe that was a cheap shot.  I apologize Mr. Beck for critiquing your vocabulary.)  And Fourth:  If I heard another minute more about Billy Joel’s divorce—which seemed to be a topic of discussion for nearly an hour—I was going to do a jackknife across the highway!

You got that right.  Who the hell cares about Billy Joel’s divorce, and the fact he married a chick more than thirty years his junior?  After Beck ranted on and on about this “Piano Man’s” predicament, they opened up the phone lines to talk about the age difference, and a 53 year-old male caller chimed in and boasted how lucky he was to meet his (now) 23 year-old wife.  However, the fact the caller hinted he met his wife when she was a minor—and the fact Beck and his Z Morningish Zoo crew thought it was funny, was really creepy to me . . . Especially when the next segment was a monologue judging our new President Obama, who the last time I checked, wasn’t joking in the Oval Office about pedophlia.

Let’s not even touch upon the Obama thing, because this is a free country, and if Beck wants to vote for Sarah Palin next time around, go for it baby (no pun)—and bring those stanky guitars with you in the voting booth.  But really, Beck, your persona on TV is a disconnect with your radio host character, and although it’s great you command a huge audience who respects you, I’m not sure I find humor in a caller admitting he played around with a minor before having her baby.  Do you?  On the other hand, if you respected Sarah Palin’s 2008 campaign, you probably aren’t thrown off by really awkward moments.   

In a world where Sarah Palin has the right to scream and yell at David Letterman for making that stupid joke about how he thought Palin’s teenage daughter should get knocked up by baseball star, Alex Rodriguez, why is Beck and company not judging his 53 year-old geezer of a caller?  Instead, we’re privy to hearing Beck’s entourage chuckling in the background about this sick schtick!  Do you think because you’re all guys, this subject matter is acceptable, and a rite of passage only worthy of those who watch Spike TV? Uh, where the hell is Gloria Steinem when you need her?   

This ain’t guy talk; This is NewsTalk . . . Radio.   

Beck:  Tell it like it is—without the reverb, the guitars, and the sales pitch.  Oh, and congrats on your (already) New York Times best-seller, Glenn Beck’s Common Sense, the book you say was ‘scary to write.’ 

Lights out, fellas.

Hey, whatever happened to Soupy Sales? 

Peace.

The Mouthinator.  

The Mouthinator News, Politics, Pop Culture, entertainment

 

Greetings Mouthketeers:

 

I was going to blog about the “dead mom,” the guy who disguised himself as his mother (who died years ago), in order to collect her benefits, but then I thought I’d share some real news that will help you or someone you know.  (We’ll play dress-up another day.  OK?) 

 

Some of us inject a poison, such as Botox, in your faces, (what’s up with those crazy eyebrows, people?), others shove saline or silicone to poof up your bust line—just in case you need a floatation device when you’re swimming; but do any of us slather our bods with pesticide?  If the answer is “no,” why on Earth would we accept rubbing that crap on our dogs and cats to protect them from Fleas and Ticks? 

 

You got that right.  Products such as Frontline, is a P-e-s-t-i-c-i-d-e! (And people wonder why we’re all getting Cancer?  Excuse me.  Are we crazy?)  Please don’t be confused with where I’m going with this.  Just take it for face value, and if you are a dog or even a pussycat owner (or know someone who is), please pass this blog along to them because I’m gonna share some useful info for a change.  Deal?

 

Here’s the setup:  So I have a Silver-Dappled Mini Daschund named Rufus, a little hotdog of a thing who specializes in “whisper singing.” Anyway, the other day we attended the 11^th Annual Dachsie Fest in Westport Connecticut, which was nothing more than a group of hundreds of hotdogs and their slightly eccentric owners and admirers parading around a park, showing off their pooches, and looking to rescue other Dachsie dogs in distress.  During the event, at least fifteen strangers asked me why Rufus’s coat was so soft and silky . . . so in the spirit of sharing my trade secrets for keeping Rufus’s coat the way it is, I’d thought I would also reveal other eco-friendly remedies:

 

Trade Secret Number One:  For a silky beautiful coat, add a supplement called “Dreamcoat” into your pet food everyday.  It’s put out by a former client of mine, called Halo Purely for Pets, and is an organic oil supplement that will not only stop your dog (or cat) from itching, but will cut down on the shedding and dander, and make their coats so shiny, you’d swear you honey bunny is ready to audition for a Preference by Loreal commercial!  You can get Dreamcoat in pet stores including PetCo, as well as on the Internet. 

 

Trade Secret Number Two:  To get rid of Flea and ticks, throw away the Frontline and the Hartz, etc. in favor of an eco-friendly powdered supplement put out by Earth Animal in Westport CT, called Earth Animal Herbal Internal Flea and Tick Powder Yeast Free. (There’s also another version on the site too.)  Friends, when you add this to your pet’s food, it will smell as if you’re feeding them an Italian dinner. According to the store, this stuff will also “clean” their blood while warding off those F&Ts.  (BTW, you can also get Dreamcoat on this site too.)

 

Trade Secret Number Three:  For those doggies who can’t express their anal glands as easily as others (I can’t describe this any further because I’ll be grossed out so please ask your vet about AGs—especially if you have a male dog), I also add a big fat tablespoon of Libby’s 100% Pure Pumpkin (from a can) into the food as well.  This supplement will not only bulk up the food, but help Fido expel his anal toxins more easily.  FYI, the holiday season is a great time to stock up on cans of the pumpkin, which can last for years.

 

Trade Secret Number Four:  Feed your dog Spot’s Stew, also put out by Halo.  This miracle food, which incidentally, can be eaten by anything, including humans, comes in Chicken, Beef, Lamb and Salmon flavors.  I serve Rufus the wet; however they recently launched the dry. 

 

So if you’ve got some trade secrets you’d like to share, please let me know.

 

You must check out a great book called Broadway Tails published by Globe Pequot, and written by Bill Berloni, the guy who found and saved the original “Sandy” for the musical “Annie.”  Bill and his wife, Dorothy, are premier trainers for the stage and screen as well as rescuers.  BTW, I only love eating my hotdogs with Ketchup.

 

Peace.

 

The Mouthinator.

 

 

The Mouthinator News, Pet

 

 

Dear Mouthketeers:

If Ruth Madoff isn’t going down as the “Eva Braun” to one of the most disgusting financial terrorists on the planet, she’ll go down as a woman who best resembles Meg Ryan—without the poufy-puffy lips.  Why?  I had the “pleasure” of seeing not one, but two shots of Ruth Madoff in the New York Times “Sunday Styles” section yesterday, where this woman’s “story” was apparently worthy of a front page.  But what is Ruth/Eva/Meg’s revelation these days?  Newsflash:  She’s waiting for her husband Bernie Madoff/Adolf (Hitler) to await sentencing.

That’s the story. (I would have loved to be a fly on the wall when the publicist pitched this non-story to the writer.)  And wait, there’s more to learn:  Eva/Ruth/Meg has been ousted from her beauty salon in NYC (they won’t even visit her privately in her penthouse apartment on 64th Street in Manhattan), and from the Amagansett, New York florist who decorated her husband’s annual corporate party in Montauk, the tip of Long Island.  Wow.

But what is probably the most shocking news of all is the Times didn’t even have the clout to get an interview with Eva/Ruth/Meg herself.  What’s up with that?  You write a cover story about someone who doesn’t do anything, hasn’t even committed suicide, and all you can come up with is a few quotes from a wife of another former evil financier and a couple of soundbytes from an attorney, as example?  Yadda, yadda, yadda . . . Y-A-W-N.

In a world where the news business is greatly tanking, (because, in my opinion, the public is sick of reading the same old stories over and over again), I think the SundayStyles section is getting desperate for attention.  Perhaps I’d be interested if Ruth/Eva/Meg squeals on Bernie/Adolf and tells the truth; however, until then, what clout does she really have except being married to an asshole for 49 years?  And the last time I checked, living with a puss-faced criminal for almost half a century isn’t very stylish either.  Unless she’s a cloister nun disguised as a rich woman, how could this chick not know what her hubby was up to?  She must’ve had a conversation or two with him before ordering his flowers or before she highlighted her hair the color of “Soft Baby Blonde,” according to the paper, no? 

Most disgustingly, some yenta image consultant quoted in the piece actually suggested Ruth/Eva/Meg could change her image if she simply devoted her time to a charity, predicting that “an orphanage or a pet shelter would be a good place to start.”  Image Consultant:  If you get any salary for your advice you should be fired.  The American public won’t shed any tear for Ruth/Eva/Meg simply because she sits at the reception desk at the local ASPCA every Saturday.  Are you kidding?

My Account Executive, Khuong, and my AAE, Abby, do more charity work than anyone I know, yet no paper features them.  And that’s precisely why the New York Times and all the other papers are tanking:  Because they’re not putting much news value on the local scene anymore, and in fact, the Metro Section has really shrunk in the Times these days.  A current trend on the Internet and on television; however, is to promote real people on the street as iReporters, who can respond to real news as it really happens.

I might cancel my subscriptions to the New York Times because if I wanna read these wannabe news stories, I’ll just go on their website.  I’m beginning to pull my news from the Internet anyway; and frankly, I will find more about Ruth/Eva/Meg on Google, than in the Times, so why bother?

It takes too long to drive to Montauk, doesn’t it?

Peace.

The Mouthinator.

The Mouthinator Finance, Lifestyle, News, Pop Culture

 

Greetings Mouthketeers:

 

I was going to chat about dear Susan Boyle.  Then I thought I’d ramble on about my idiot box Blackberry and my stupid Macbook Pro—two contraptions I’m convinced will never sync up no matter how many renegade synching software packages I load up on my laptop.  Then I was going to write about how Angie Jolie bumped Oprah off of her pedestal on the Forbes “Celebrity 100″ List (uh, who really cares?) . . . But then I decided to pay tribute to Air France Flight 447.

 

I hope and pray those people didn’t feel any pain or experience any torture—that they simply popped out of there seats and took the express bus straight to Heaven.   But the other side of me knows they suffered big time. 

 

First, how does a plane just disintegrate off a radar screen—four hours into a flight?  Poof? Isn’t the “cruising altitude” part of the flight the safest over the takeoff and landing?   Honestly, the visual of how these poor people were killed forces me to give a big, tragic F to the airline industry for simply . . . being an industry.  This tragedy further confirms why I hate to fly and confirms why flying to me is as dangerous as hunting down Osama Bin Laden through the mountainous ranges of Afghanistan (or someone of that evil ilk.) 

 

I used to love to fly . . . until—at the age of seven—when some wackos were screaming during an entire turbulent flight from Miami to NYC.

 

When I was going through therapy and talked about fear of flying, the therapist actually compared a plane to a penis and said I was fearful of both.  (Yes, I really wrote that.)  I was once on a plane ready to touch down, when it decided to fly back up.  There was another flight where we were in the middle of a thunder and lightning storm (not fun). 

 

However, my absolute worse flying saga took place when I was coming home on Delta from a Book Expo America in Chicago.  The flight I was on should have been the first one of the day to be scraped, not the last to takeoff.  Instead of flying Chicago/Philadelphia, the flight ended up somewhere down south—because the plane was dodging tornados.  You got that right.  The damn tin can was being blown down the coast. Just as it made an emergency landing, the captain announced the plane was going to takeoff again.  At that moment, I freaked, and demanded to be “taken off of the plane because I [did] not trust the captain.”  Needless to say, I was kicked off and sent to a Holiday Inn for the night.  My friends on the plane not only wondered how the hell I was going to get home but if they were going to survive another flight in the amusement park in the sky.

 

Why should any of us put up with these escapades?  Do I really believe that turbulence is “like a car running over a pebble on the street?”  Bullshit.  Turbulence is more like a bullet ricocheting through the projects in the South Bronx, not a pebble. 

 

As much as I love going to Europe or the west coast, the thought of getting on that big penis really makes me want to throw up.  God bless Flight 447, and may you all rest in peace. 

 

What ever happened to the Concord? 

 

Peace.

 

The Mouthinator. 

 

The Mouthinator Lifestyle, News