My tenure with the Baron has drawn to a close, as I depart arenose climes (suck it spellcheck, arenose is so a word, it comes from the latin word for sand, the sand the gladiators fought on in the Coliseum, for instance, which is where the term ‘arena’ originated… what kind of word-related computer program possesses a vocabulary inferior to that of a trust fund kid with a dismal education record, who loafs about the globe acquiring better methods of strangling people?). My destination? The concrete canyons, teeming with humanity, that riddle the landscape of the northeast. Prior to my departure, I invited the Baron for a steak dinner to thank him for his hospitality, a straightforward enough endeavour, you would think… erroneously, as it turns out. For you see the most recent participant in the parade of whores through the Baron’s estate (a bimbo whose slender, slight frame is so juxtaposed by her giant, cartoonish 800cc implants that her ability to walk upright will make you doubt the laws of gravity) decided to throw a spoiled whore shit fit over the Baron not devoting enough time to her that day. You have to slog through several levels of how retarded such a complaint is before you even get to the one regarding what kind of delusional, self-entitled cunt complains about someone spending time with a friend on their final day in town. However, instead of just a pleasant dinner, the Baron and I had a pleasant dinner followed by an entertaining evening at home, mocking the whore, who we will call, oh, let’s say Malice.
Malice: “I don’t understand why you let Clint stay here, all he does is wake up at noon, hang out, read books and train!”
Baron: “Why do I let you stay here? You don’t even read, let alone train.”
Malice: “That’s different, I give you this.” She points in the direction of her genitals.
Me: “The difference being your status as a prostitute is no longer merely implicit?”
Malice: “Fuck you Clint!”
Me: “Okay, but I can’t offer you a place to stay in exchange.”
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Not quite a redeye flight, but close enough, as I had to be at the airport at 5am which means I arrived at the ticket counter on approximately 45 minutes of sleep. Nevertheless, I summoned what little energy I had remaining to power my charm engine in an attempt to derive some extra leg room.
Me: “Good morning ma’am! Since I’m quite tall… and handsome… I think I deserve a bulkhead seat so that I may stretch my long, sinewy legs.” The pause before and after referring to yourself as handsome, as well as the self-deprecating facial expression employed during, is quite key. Think big, think over the top. Subtlety requires finesse, when you’re half delirious from lack of sleep, all you have in you is one hefty swing, so you go blatant or go to hell (hell in this case being a coach seat located between the opulent skin folds of two average sized American adults).
Ticket Lady: “Ha, I can’t say that I’ve ever heard that before. I’ll go you one better, flight’s light, you can have your own row.”
Blatant works.
After a few hours in the air, spent fully recumbent on the verge of, but never quite achieving, slumber, I managed to be the first to deplane. That, and the rapid walking pace afforded by the aforementioned length of my legs, ensured my arrival at customs (before continuing to the American northeast, I will be spending a week in the Toronto Canada northeast, enjoying the festivities surrounding UFC 129) well ahead of anyone else. Not only that, but the entire room was deserted, save for myself, and 8 or so customs officials. The first thought that goes through your mind in this instance is ‘woohoo, no lineup!’. The second is ‘those customs officials look phenomenally bored, if I don’t think of something quick, I’m about to get cavity searched’. So I step to the dead center point in front of all of them, wait till each one has looked up at me and, spreading my arms wide in the manner of a magician about to utter the phrase ‘Tada!’, I bellow, in the most jocular fashion I can muster : “Who wants it?!”.
A female customs agent smiles, I dash over to her booth and get rubber-stamped into the Great White North. Yet again, blatant works.