Anchorage

photo credit: lonely radio

It has never been disputed that I am a seething well of misanthropy on a good day. I was content in the knowlege that I hated people without bias or prejudice. It turns out, however, that I am positively care-bearian in my ways compared to the fine staff at the Perth International Airport. These guys take the cake when it comes to pure malice. They treat disdain as a commodity, like something you can pick up in the duty free lounge in the extra large bottles. You only need to walk past them and they hand out samples of this blackness mid stride. Judgmental glances and disgusted snorts. You must understand, to these people, you are a lesser being. Like something primordial whos existance within the airport is nothing short of an anachronistic miracle. When we were not being chided by the duty free lady, scowled at by customs officers, or bent over and shat on by the boarding desk, even the cafe hates you. No, not the serving wench, though she challenges the medical definition of dead. I mean the food! That’s right, you peer through the glass window and a dishevelled croissant looks up at you and says “Hey buddy… I fucked your mum. JUst sayin’ is all”. Obviously you don’t want to pick the rude little french pastry, but you look around and realise that he is on his own in there. A good 5 square meters of prime food real-estate and the croissant rules alone. That, my friend, is not a cafe; rather more akin to a seedy pastry based peep show that would happily give your eyes chlamidia.

The point I’m trying to make here, is that Perth International Airport are full of self absorbed, arrogantly retarted tosswanks who can sit on a greased broom handle and go pogo around the erect phallus they worship so dearly. Furthermore, if you are going to treat me and my partner like utter filth for two and a half hours, don’t you fucking dare put us on opposite ends of an A330 Airbus for 6 fucking hours and have the nerve to tell us the seats are “close together”.

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