Anchorage

photo credit: divemasterking2000

If I were to say that I am sitting in a wooden chair, watching the clouds drizzle down on my oily, sweating skin, and not noticing because its so humid that the rain feels dryer than the air… I could not hope to convey just how relaxing it is to be here in Phuket. Sure you need to shower around six times a day, but seeing as every time you open the shower door there is a freshly folded towel sitting on the marble bench opposite the sliding Japanese doors, that doesn’t seem all too bad. Besides, instead of showering you could go for a swim in one of the lagoon shaped swimming pools among the palm fronds. Or maybe a spa this time, letting the bubble jets pulverise the tension in your back to Oblivion. After all, once you have done that you can go straight back to the continental buffet that is provided as a courtesy. Or back to the bar and order another half-litre of Remy Martin VS with the spare 120 Baht in your pocket. Perhaps a trip back to the marketplace is in order, you know, so you can be treated like the emporer himself as you get measured up for your second suit to be tailored that day.

What the hell, I’m going back and renting that Jet Ski again. Besides what else was I going to do with that five dollars?

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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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