I’m not even there and I’m hearing it already.
I thought day one of the convention would be hard enough – running the hamster wheel of cubicle life before boarding a plane to Vegas with an anticipated arrival roughly 5 hours before I’d have to get up and hit the floor. And then hit the cross race. And then the goldsprints. But no. On the way to the airport, after receiving two automatron phone calls telling me my flight was on time, I got another ring from yet another 800 number. My date was cancelled. Our bubble-gum and toothpick radar system that just barely keeps planes in the sky crapped out for two hours in Memphis, thus preventing me from getting from Pittsburgh to Vegas via Chicago.
So now I have an exciting 6am flight, and a taxi ride right to the show. And then to the cross race. And then to the goldsprints. Its like having a 10hr commute. Why do we do this to ourselves?
Further punishment will surely follow during the post-show, short-for-westerners Vegas to Flagstaff drive with our own housekeeper ’round here, Big Jonny.
“Jonny, when we get home, can my ballsack grace your stately pink Moser?”by