The SandGram

Yesterday while I was lying in the burn ward getting my crotch bandages changed, I had a chance to catch the air disaster movie marathon on TCM. The lineup included “Zero Hour,” “The High and the Mighty,” “Skyjacked,” and “Airport ’75.” For all their campy fun and unintentional laughs, those corny old films really serve as a grim reminder how the whole in-flight terror experience has gone completely downhill since the jet set golden years of the 50’s, 60’s and 70’s. What happened to all those pretty stewardesses and polite, well dressed infidels, screaming as the plane plummeted to the ground? Time was, a suicide mission to explode an international jumbo jet was an event full of glamor and excitement; but now it seems to be a endless series of delays, hassles, pushy jerks and third-degree testicular chemical burns. And don’t even get me started on the crappy airline food.

Take for example a recent flight I took from Lagos to Detroit. With over 100,000 miles on my JihadAir platinum card, I’ve schlepped enough miles through Heathrow and Gatwick and Yemen International to know I should be at the airport two hours before departure. Especially during the holiday heavy bombing season. Good thing too, because by the time I got there, there was already a mile long line at the explosives counter. And man, talk about smell! I swear half of these stupid shaheeds hadn’t bothered to take a shower, let alone a pre-martyrdom ablution ritual. Come on people, how about a little self respect?

And right when I was only two martyrs in line from the counter? Yep, you guessed it. The stupid explosives agents called for a prayer break. To top that, just as I was finishing my last supplication, I get up off the prayer rug and these three friggin’ Saudis totally jump the line, and I’m like, “dude, WTF?” And they’re like, “hey, sorry bro, we’re late for a bombing in Somalia.” And I’m like, “come on man, we’ve all got flights we want to bomb, no cutting.”

Anyhow, by the time I finally get to the counter, they were all out of business class upgrades and PETN fanny packs. Okay, how about a aisle seat and a rectal bomb? No such luck. Yep, like always, good ol’ Umar gets stuck with a center seat in row 43 and a pair of those C4 bikini briefs. The kind that really bind your nutsack. Sometimes I wonder why I even pay the 50 bucks to keep my 1K status on that stupid frequent bomber card.

I was going to lodge a complaint, but the flight was already boarding. I hightailed it through security and was lucky to catch a goatcart that got me to my gate just as they were closing the door. Then the rest of the passengers give me the stinkface, like I’m holding up the show! Hey, infidels, don’t blame me, take it up with 72 Virgin Atlantic. And then, of course, I see I’m seated between two 350 pound Imams who are eating takeout from the food court Falafel Bell.

I’ll spare you the description of the aromas on that 6 hour flight to Amsterdam. The in flight movie was some horrible Sandra Bullock romantic comedy, so I ended up doing a couple Super Sodukus and leafing through the SkyMartryMall catalog. When we landed at Amsterdam, it took 40 freaking minutes to deplane because apparently no one at the airline feels like enforcing the three carry-on chicken limit.

I guess things got a little better at the Amsterdam airport. JihadAir had a concierge service waiting for me at the gate, some Pakistani guy holding up a little “Abdulmutallab” sign. All apologetic, like, “oh, I am so sorry for your inconvenience, Mr. Abdulmutallab,” “let us take care of your arrangements,” “you are a valued customer, Mr. Abdulmutallab,” “let me get the detonator for you.” I guess he heard about my hassles at Lagos and was worried I would transfer my miles to Air Shaheed.

Anyhow I had a two hour layover, so I stopped into the Magic Carpet Club for a complementary pretzels and hashish. Afterwards I had the munchies so I went to the Cinnabon. Geez, 5 euros for a freakin’ cinnamon roll? Talk about air piracy! When the flight to Detroit started boarding, the concierge told me to keep quiet and he would take care of the check-in. The US State Department agent asked to see my passport, and the concierge explained that I was a Somali refugee. So she looks at her computer screen and says, “um, I’m afraid there’s a problem, this passenger’s name is on a watch list.” Oh, great. Looks like my dad is playing Mr. Buzzkill again, just because I took that semester off from Oxford to go backpacking in Yemen. So I showed her my official State Department visa.

So I’m like, “honey, do I look like I’m a US military veteran?”

“No.”

“Do I look like I’m some sort of right wing anti-tax teabagger?”

“No.”

“Do I look like anybody else on the DHS terrorism danger list?”

“No, but…”

“Then I suggest that unless you want a nasty anti-discrimination lawsuit on your hands, you’d best give me an aisle seat. With extended legroom.”

That shut her up. I boarded the plane with the concierge and plopped down in my seat. It looked like this martyrdom would start going a little more smoothly, but, just my luck, I’m assigned in the same row as these two smelly hippies listening to Dave Matthews on their iPods. I thought about asking for a seat change but the whole damn plane was full of stupid Dutch and American stoners, with their stupid screaming hippie babies. The thought of an 8 hour flight with these hemp shirt douchebags made me wish I was on still on that connecting flight from Lagos with all the livestock and poultry.

After we took off (after a 45 minute delay on the tarmac) I look up and the in-flight movie is — get this — another horrible Sandra Bullock flick. I mean, WTF is it with these infidels? As if flying isn’t bad enough with the delays and cramped seats, do they really need to ratchet up the hellscape with Sandra Bullock and CNN Headline News? At that point I’m pretty sure I wasn’t the only one on this flight planning suicide.

When the dinner service came around, the flight attendant goes, “oh, I’m sorry Mr. Abdulmutallab, we ran out of the special halal meal. Would you like something else?”

“Um, what do you have?”

“Pork chops.”

Frack. It was a good thing I had that Cinnabon back at the food court, or I’d either be going to paradise half starved or to pig eater hell. So I just ordered a Diet Sprite and washed down my prescription of of suicide relaxants.

I pretty much dozed off after that, but then it was like “BING! Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. In twenty minutes we will begin preparations for our final descent into Detroit, so if you have to use the restrooms, blah blah blah.” Crap, I had completely forgotten to blow up the plane, and the concierge was giving me the hurry up sign. So I walked back to the loo, and there was already a line of hippies. So I told them, “hey dude, do you mind? I really gotta pinch one bad.” I guess my eyes were kinda dilated from the suicide relaxants, so they let me by.

Lemme ask you: have you ever tried to inject a glycerin detonator syringe into some plastic explosives glued under your nutsack, while you were stoned out of your gourd, in an airplane bathroom, during Lake Erie turbulence, while some stupid hippie is pounding on the door? Take my word for this, it. is. a. mofo. I must have stabbed myself in the junk eight or ten times before I finally got it smoldering. So I stroll out of the loo, real casual-like, with my nuts on fire, and headed back to my seat to blow out the fuselage.

But then, get this: some friggin’ Dutch dude jumps out of his seat and tackles me right in the aisle, completely ignoring the “fasten seatbelts” sign! Typical pushy Eurotrash. And then the flight attendant comes running up, and instead of enforcing the damn rules starts blasting me with the fire extinguisher, which means my nards go from flame broiled to freeze dried in about 3 seconds flat. To top it all off? While I was laying there a stupid hippie baby throws up all over my head.

Good thing I was wasted on those relaxants, because I don’t remember too much until we were at the gate at Detroit International. When I came to, I was handcuffed, surrounded by cops and bomb sniffing dogs. Amid all the hysterical hippies I felt a strange sensation and heard a soft klink. -Yep, you guessed it. My freeze dried bar-b-cued junk had just fallen off. Before I could locate it, one of the bomb sniffing dog snarfed it up like a frozen snausage. A damn lot of good those 72 virgins are going to do me now. At least I got to get off the plane before everybody else, and I didn’t have to wait in line at customs. Plus I’m getting comped a hospital room, even if the chow here is even shittier than airline food.

Anyway, I’m watching a lot of TV and trying to sort out my lawsuit options. Do you believe this infidel Napolitano who keeps saying that “the system worked”? Hey, bitch, try telling that to my junk. My lawyers from CAIR say I’ve got a pretty good shot at an out of court settlement for religious discrimination, loss of wages, defamation, and alienation of penis. Maybe even seven figures.

I’m hoping for a big payday, but I’ll tell you one thing: even if I win, next time I’m taking the train.

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