The flight to Durban, South Africa, was shittaceous.
I’m no fancy meteorologist with a degree from a community college, but the cross-continental air currents seemed as confused as the people. For most of the journey, the plane pitched and shimmied like a space shuttle bursting through layers of atmosphere in a Michael Bay movie. I couldn’t help but think that our bumpy ride was a reflection of the turbulent terrain beneath us. The bubbling cauldron of anger and political unrest seemed to agitate the air above it, and we, as working guests, had to fly right through. Stupid theory? Maybe… but has anyone ever experienced turbulence over Switzerland? I’m unconvinced.
The flying waitresses walked around with plastered smiles like it was ‘Turbulent Tuesday’ at Bennigans, but I was once again utterly convinced I would die a fiery death. To stave off my imminent demise, I turned and lifted my hips depending on how we careened in order to help steer the plane. Although I’m sure my Martin Short Ed Grimley impression (FUCK YOU! I’m not old!!) was effectively the only reason we didn’t skid into a field of farming negroes, I also — as a back up — used my PSYCHIC voodoo brain waves to keep the plane aloft. Even Jamie Kennedy, very much used to my “fagolic” in-flight behavior, leaned in towards me and said, “Okay, we’re probably going down. Before we do, just admit that I can get more girls than you.”
“You only get more girls than me because people think you’re Seth Green,” I quipped back, a lonely bead of sweat swelling on my brow before falling and shattering on my rigid forearm.
In generalized moments of terror like this, my life… lollygags in front of my eyes. The discrepancy between what I want and where I’m at suddenly and sharply comes into stark relief, as if to say ‘Ta da? Really Bill? That’s what you brought to the table?’ I always extrapolate into the aftermath of my demise, picturing the front page of the paper saying:
“JAMIE KENNEDY AND UNKNOWN COMIC DIE IN EXTRA FIERY AND INORDINATELY LONG SPIRALLING PLANE CRASH FULL OF SCREAMING BABIES!”
I try to short circuit these morbid fantasies by redoubling the quickness of my hip movements in my seat and the strength of my psychic voodoo brain waves. After all, I want an obit with a fuckin’ picture next to it at least when I die! I need to book at least a CSI or two, even a syndicated reality show; something that would hypothetically earn that type of posthumous treatment. Maybe one great supporting role *coughcough* in one great independent feature film, who knows? Whatever the formula for New York Times canonization and semi-immortality is, I want the variables from my life to plug in and work. I just really don’t want to be a footnote to a footnote when I die.