Spirit Airlines Sucks

Back in January I flew with Spirit Airlines. While I blame myself for being stupid enough to fly with an airline whose name implies the probable death of it's passangers, I have no one to blame but the airline for losing my luggage and then treating my like garbage before denying my claim (please read my letter to Spirit below)

But a small victory today and I read this: http://atlanta.bizjournals.com/atlanta/stories/2009/09/14/daily96.html

...Suck on that Ben Baldanza (Spirit CEO/Peter Griffin lookalike):

http://www.digitaljournal.com/article/220271

My Letter to Spirit Airlines

To Whom It May Concern:


Spirit Airlines lost my luggage 8 days ago on a flight from Costa Rica. I filled out a “Luggage Service Report” and have called daily to try to get this taken care of, and only heard from the local number yesterday. The woman told me she had no idea where my luggage was and that I had to deal with the corporate office, which I’d actually already left messages with as soon as I got back. I have heard no response. I called the sales office (let me guess, India?) and was flat out told there was “nothing I can do”. I’ve visited your website several times to complain but I get about 2 sentences in and your server times me out (I’m literally typing this in Word and having to paste it in the complaint box so I can get this in on time. This is unacceptable, and needs to be responded to IMMEDIATELY so I can file my claim with both Spirit and my insurance company. I literally had 90% of my clothes in that bag; let me paint you a picture of my life right now: I wake up in the morning and steam clean one of the two pairs of boxer briefs that weren’t in my bag (let it be known they were not cheap either). I then precede to squeeze into POLYESTER pants that haven’t fit since Bush’s first term in office, and roll up the sleeves on my dress shirt to hide the elbow holes. Unless you’re a hobo or MC Hammer, this is no way to live. Please respond to me as soon as you get this. I can be reached at (555) 555-5555, or via email at drunkenmischief@gmail.com.



Seamus O'Brien

UP Review

My sister and I recently went to see a movie about a curmudgeonly old white man who is bitter at the world following the death of his wife. When a fatherless Asian youth trespasses on his property the two become friends and the old man becomes the boy's mentor as they both find their way through a dangerous world. Sound familiar? that's because it's the exact same plot as Grand Torino. Nice work Pixar, I haven't seen plagiarism this blatantly obvious since Kim Kardashian copied JLo's ass.That being said, the animated version of Clint Eastwood's masterpiece has a lot to offer that was left out of the original including a talking dog, a flying house, and the first cartoon miscarriage. You hear that Clint Eastwood? A cartoon Ed Asner 1 UPped you and he didn't even have to get shot by gangmemembers to do it. Up gets 5 out of 5 stars.

What a fine Sunday

I spent this past weekend in Chicago on a business trip with several of my colleagues and while I enjoyed myself at times, I could not wait to get home to Boston. We had to check out of the hotel Sunday morning but didn't fly out until 6:35PM so there was a lot of time to kill, and kill it I did:

12PM: I finish packing and check out of my hotel room. I managed to get out with 3 bottles of lotion, 1 bottle of conditioner, and 2 bars of soap but was unable to squeeze in the 4 rolls of toilet paper I'd manage to procure from a lovely maid named Karen, who I named Maria Bo Jangles as I feel "Karen" is far too pedestrian.

12:15PM: I make my way down to the lobby and meet up with my coworkers. Some of us were in Chicago for the last 2 weekends in a row and were ready to kill ourselves, when out of my periphery I saw a shining beacon of hope atop the elegant staircase at the Palmer House Hotel. I knew it had to be a dream but a paper sign read it as clear as day "MeTV Brunch, 11-1 Featuring Betty White". BETTY WHITE?! I just about lost control of my bowels and became more disappointed than ever that I hadn't been able to fit the toilet paper in my bag, but even skid marks couldn't take me down from my Betty White high. I was over the moon, and knew I had to make meeting Betty White a priority. I went to my coworkers Ted and Molly and expressed how important it was that we meet her. "We have to make our move NOW" I commanded with all the fervor of a mongoose eating a hen "I'm sure we'll be able to expense it, surely the company knows how important Betty White is!" They agreed without a moment's hesitation and we we hastily made our way to the entrance. As we walked up the stairs I panicked. There were so many older Midwestern ladies, all of them decked out in their finest pant suits and shoulder pads. I was obviously no match for them and realized I'd receive almost no face time with Betty with competition like that. They'd sit down next to her and reminisce of their memories of St. Olaf whilst feasting on cheesecake. I was sorely disappointed but at the end of the day it's just Betty White. That being said, had Beatrice Arthur been sitting in that room I'd have stormed the door with a tank just to see a glimpse of her angelic face.

6:35: After sitting in the airport for about 4 hours and getting yelled at by a bitter airline worker, I board and am seated in the row right next to the exit with about a yard and a half of leg room in front of me. I was thrilled and all I could think of doing was laying down and sleeping until the plane landed, but the plane hadn't even finished boarding when the passenger sitting next to me decided to start a conversation. "Long day huh?" the asked. She was a cute, petite Indian girl (dot not feather) who obviously wanted me to ask why it had been a long day, and being the upstanding young citizen that I am I decided to tolerate it. "Why's that?" I asked. "Well my connecting flight to New York was canceled so I've been in the airport since noon". "Where are you coming from" I followed up. "Wisconsin, I was there for the National College Curling Championships." I grabbed armrests to keep from jumping out of my seat with excitement and had to bite my lower lip to keep from laughing. Obviously God was making up for the fact that I hadn't met Betty White earlier in the day. "Curling? I said with a grin similar to that of the Grinch forming on my face. "How did that go?" I was literally sitting on the edge of my seat thinking of what I could ask her. "It was great, oh my God it was like so much fun. I mean 40 curlers in one hotel? So crazy! We stayed up until like 5!" I couldn't control myself and definitely laughed a little but did everything I could to keep it going as it was the highlight of my weekend "I can imagine!" I said "Sounds crazy!" "You have no idea, but we totally got robbed. One of our teams got 3rd, one got second, but my team....well we got put with a group that was just way out of our league. So unfair, they were like pros!" "Jeez Louise" I said, "sounds like you got robbed!" I managed to ask her a few more questions before the stewardess safety rundown ended the conversation, but those five minutes were enough to last me five days so I have no regrets. What a Sunday.

A Bon Jovi Christmas: 2008

Immediately after I was let go from my sales job, I was rehired by a completely different division within our parent company. I was told that in order for me to get this position, they were actually letting someone else go. This was unfortunate but I needed beer money and wasn’t about to turn down a job based on principle, and besides, my moral compass has been out of whack for some time now. I felt as if I had been given a second chance and knew right away I’d be doing things much differently. My days of sending e-cards and surfing the web for deals on Flat screen TV’s from my work computer were over. If I was going to be taken seriously I had to step up my game considerably, and that included getting eyeglasses. I’ve had 20/20 vision all my life and have always felt that my lack of eyeglasses hindered my intelligence. Being the company sex symbol was all well and good, but if I could combine my rugged good looks and obvious charisma with a facade of intellectualism, there would be no telling how far I could go. I also began to reinvestigate the possibility of buying a vest but with things being what they were with the economy, this was no time for excess spending, and I determined getting in incredible shape would be enough. But before I began a rigorous fitness regime filled with creatine and 6 mile runs, I thought a celebration was in order. My friend Sasha’s band happened to be in town that night and everyone who had been laid off was going. The concert started at 10 so to keep up with my schedule I started drinking at my apartment at 7, and had a mild buzz going by the time I arrived at the bar to to see the show. I was giddy, not only did I have a new job to celebrate, but I was also given 2 ½ weeks off paid until I started; tonight was clearly a night to get drunk and I headed straight for the bar. I was pleased to see the bartender was a high school acquaintance. I was surprised to see him bartending considering his full time job was actually the same position I’d just been hired for. “Steve” I yelled ecstatically as if he was my long lost Siamese twin, “How are you man!? Guess what, I actually just got hired to do the same job you do. We’re going to be working together, isn’t that great!?” He looked confused for a second, and then nodded and made the most ridiculous fake smile I’d ever seen. “Um, I guess I’ll just take a Corona” I said changing the topic. He didn’t seem to be overly jazzed about working with me but that wasn’t about to stop me from enjoying myself. About a week later while talking with one of my new coworkers on the phone, it came out that Steve had actually been the person fired so that I could have the job. Fantastic. Not only had I blissfully told a man I’d taken his job right before the holidays, I then proceeded to order a beer from him and tip him a dollar. By the time I started the job every one of my new coworkers had heard about my run in with Steve and thought it was hilarious. Normally I’d take pride in being the center of attention, but this did not bode well for my efforts to paint myself as professional. On top of that, I hadn’t remembered to buy my fake eyeglasses beforehand, and telling everyone I met I was wearing contacts didn’t seem to have the same intellectual effect. I made it s point to buckle down and work incessantly from 9 to 5:30 everyday and always be wearing a winning smile. I was amazed at how well my strategy working, and couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it earlier. My life was just like Michael J. Fox in “The Secret of My Success” and nothing could stand in my way. This false sense of security would be my downfall.
In spite of the crumbling world economy and devastating cutbacks, our company made it a point to have not one, but two non denominational holiday parties. The first was a tame get together for friends and family in the company’s main building. The second party was a staff only Masquerade ball to be set in a downtown club. I sensed that debauchery was afoot but in my new, professional role I viewed myself more as the high brow critic than the person being judged. I’d show up in a crisp tuxedo with slicked back hair and Phantom of the Opera mask and nurse the same brandy all night long, casually exchanging saucy banter with the female executives. “Oh Shaun, you’re perfectly sinful!” they’d laugh, “We simply must set up a lunch at Dante next week to discuss your future with the company.” I was on a fast track to riches and glory, until I got the better of myself. The day of the Holiday Masquerade Ball my division of the company held its Secret Santa gift exchange. According to my new success plan, I needed to use every aspect of the workday to highlight my numerous skills. Since this was a fun event, focusing on my creativity seemed to be the best idea. I wasn’t about to give someone a run of the mill Rubick’s cube or Starbucks gift card; I had big plans. The year prior, my Secret Santa had given me a bottle of wine, a scented candle, and a Peabo Bryson CD and deemed it the “Get your Groove on Kit”. This was exactly the sort of gift I would give so I stole the exact same idea, only per my new mantra, made it more professional. I spent well over 20 minutes photoshoping a label for The “Get Yo’ Groove on kit 2008 Deluxe Edition”, complete with a picture of a disco ball, a king sized bed, and the cover of the Dirty Dancing DVD. Since this was the deluxe edition, it also seemed behooving to put in a little something extra, so I added a can of Blade Panther body spray. Needless to say the recipient of this was mortified, but the crowed roared with laughter. I couldn’t help but be pleased with myself. It might not have been the most professional gift, but I was now leaning toward a healthy balance of professionalism, and being the center of attention. I had a few more celebratory glasses of wine, and then headed home to prepare for the masquerade ball.
I showed up for the party at 9 and was given 2 drink tickets for the bar. My first thought was “Thank God I drank a bottle of wine before I left the house”, my second was “who can I use to get more drink tickets?” The usual go to Mormon who worked with me was lost to the first round of layoffs, but there were still the recovering alcoholics, and as usual I took full advantage of them. I then proceeded to coax tickets from upper management , followed by scavenging the floor for fallen soldiers. When I’d collected about 11, I was ready to start enjoying myself. I mingled and exchanged witty banter just as I’d planned, and at this point I was by no means the drunkest person in the room. At around 9:30 our CEO made her speech from the stage. When she finished the dancing started and I noticed a couple of people discreetly dancing on the stage and thought , “Gosh that seems fun”. Then as if God was testing me, at 10:30 pm on the dot, Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer” began to play. Now I consider myself to be a man of strong self control, but there are some things I have no control over, and one of them is my body whenever Bon Jovi comes on. Without thinking, I immediately jumped up on stage and began to do what was later described to me in great detail as “some sort of rain dance”. This of course involved excessive head bobbing and air guitar playing. I forgot all about my professionalism and continued to rock out on stage long after Jon Bon Jovi had finished singing, and left only to get drinks. I stayed on that stage for 2 hours, but when it became crowded and trendy, I decided to make my exit.
I managed to find my roommate, my old manager, and some coworkers from my previous position. They were dancing just as hard as I was and It seemed like a good place to call it a night. We continued binge drinking and dancing until the lights came on at 1:30 and we were asked to leave.
When I got to work on Monday I’d forgotten all about my professionalism, and my only concern was finding someone who’d been drunker than myself to start gossip about, thus taking any negative attention off of me. There was nobody. I tried to keep a low profile until things blew over, and took a corner seat during our staff meeting. Things were going smoothly and the meeting was almost over when the President said in his Swedish accent, “And I didn’t know we had our own Bon Jovi.” After only 2 full weeks at my new job, I’d blown any shot at advancing my career, and am basically a huge joke. Phenomenal.

sorry

having trouble pasting the rest of the text on "Testees" when I have time I'll retype it and post it.

Testees

My roommate Matt had been living with my other roommate Alec and I for about 2 months when I came to the unfortunate conclusion that he was much more interesting than me. I had a stable job selling reasonably priced travel to baby boomers, with respectable insurance, barley able to make ends meet. I was living clearly the dream. Matt on the other hand bounced from job to job and had no insurance or stability of any kind, whatsoever. He’d come home after his random jobs and tell us of his day bottling beer, or selling cell phones, or something equally fascinating. It was clear that he had things all figured out, and while I still considered myself the looks of the apartment, there was no questioning that he was the charisma, and I wasn’t about to stand for that. After 23 years of living outside the box and relying on my raging, uncontrollable attention deficit disorder to help me stand out, I’d finally become a boring salesman. What a catastrophe. I knew something had to be done. I thought the most appropriate course of action would be to observe Matt in his day to day life. After closely stalking him for several days, I noticed that he had a strong affinity for partaking in college research studies. I was astonished that I hadn’t yet considered a scheme which would not only increase my interesting level five fold, but potentially harm me physically or mentally to a degree worthy of a class action lawsuit. This was my ticket to riches and popularity, and I wasn’t about to pass that up.
I searched hither and yon for the perfect research study, but sleep deprivation and eating disorder observation were all that Craigslist yielded for me. And while I toyed with the idea of taking up Bulemia for a while to make the cut, I’d invested far to much of my parents money in orthodontia and teeth whitening to throw it all away on weight loss. I thought it was a lost cause until on day while cheating at my Soduku puzzle in a local paper, I saw an add for a Testosterone Mediation Reasearch Study. There wasn’t much information provided in the ad, but fate had grabbed me by the balls and given me an opportunity, who was I to spit in her face? I immediately wrote down the phone number and made a mental note to call that night. About a week later while cleaning my room, I found the number and remembered my ambitions. I immediately googled the organization running the study and found that although they were not entirely reputable, they did have a respectable website and that was good enough for me. The study seemed pretty reasonable. Their plan was to inject the participants with steroids for a 10 month period and study the outcome, and after which time the participant receives a $1,000 check. This was perfect. Not only was I going to have enough money to buy the big screen Mitsubishi TV I’d had my eye on, I’d also come out of it with the body of Carrot Top, and minus the blazing red fire crotch, and isn’t looking like Carrot Top every man’s dream? I ran with lightning speed to Matt and pitched him the idea (I’m unhealthily codependent and refuse to so much as go to the grocery store alone). As I expected he was in, so long as I perused it first to let him know how it went. DEAL!
The next morning I called the research lab and spoke with a charming woman whose voice soothed me in a way I hadn’t experienced since being captivated by Teen Choice Award Nominee Liv Tyler in Armageddon. Clearly this was a reputable establishment, and I made my evaluation appointment right then. I was unbelievably excited and it was all I could talk about for the entire week before. “I’m starting a strict, laboratory controlled testosterone study soon” I’d brag to my coworkers, “don’t worry, I’ll remember you all when I’m toned and popular.” Finally the day of my appointment arrived and I was downright giddy. My days of being boring and predictable were numbered, and I couldn’t wait to get my injections started. The second I arrived at the testing lab I began to regret my decision. The facility reminded me of the mental hospital in the movie House on Haunted Hill, only Ali Larter was nowhere in sight, and I remain convinced that the receptionist was in fact the ghost of Eleanor Roosevelt. The researcher assigned to examine me was no better. He was a nice enough fellow but he’d clearly just immigrated to the United States from a country where godless savages roamed free and medical degrees are traded for sex. I half expected to wake up an hour later in a bathtub filled with icecubes, minus 1 kidney, but that would have actually increased my “interesting” level much more than steroids, so I decided to stick around and see how things played out.
Although I had serious doubts about his legal status in our country, the doctor was extremely nice and I started to feel more comfortable in the situation. He went over the basics of the study and then handed me a 12 page synopsis to read while he left the room briefly. The first thing that caught my eye was the possibility of hair loss. At this stage in my life I’d been trying for months to grow a mane as thick and voluptuous as John Stemos’ circa 1992, and the thought of losing all of my gains for money made me hesitant. I continued to read in the hopes that the conditions would improve but things only took a sharp nosedive after I read the following:
“We will ask to record your erection response to a sexual stimulus. You will be asked th watch an erotic video in a private room while you wear a device called a RigiScan. The device is a small box with a wire attached to two loops with sterile covers. You will be told how to place the two loops around the base and the tip of the penis. The loops fit snuggly, not tightly, and will allow the device to record the degree to which you may have an erection while you are watching the erotic video.”
My chin hit the table. I was shocked at what I’d just read, and in although I was impressed by their use of hygienic penis covers, and intreagued by the prospect of singing “Dick in a Box” and meaning it, I started to seriously consider the possibility that this might not be the study for me; a suspicion which I confirmed after a little more reading, I learned that participating in this study could result in shrinkage of my testicles. That was the last straw. Watching my hair fall out of my head while my penis was trapped in a box was acceptable, but not if my little treasures were put in harm’s way. I knew now that I wasn’t going to go through with this, and my next task was to figure out a way to get out of the situation. Being honest and forthcoming with the doctor was the logical and mature route to take, but given the fact that I’m a red hot coward I decided to just go along with it as if I was still interested. The doctor came back into the room and asked what I thought. “Sounds great to me! Where do I sign?!” He showed me where to put my signature and I signed wondering if this was in anyway binding. The doctor said I’d wait ½ hour and then go in for blood tests. I agreed, told him I’d see him shortly, then got my parking validated and drove as fast as I could to work where I sat trembling in a corner for the better part of the morning before telling coworkers my story. “Wow” one of them said, “maybe you should just try a sleep study.”

Smints and Muggings

My Junior year of college I spent a semester studying in Granada, Spain. Although my Spanish was sub par and most of the women there had mullets, it became my second home. I lived in a dorm with 6 other Americans, among them were Alex, Kristina, and Natalie. In addition, I’d been flirting with another American girl named Jennie for the past 4 months but made absolutely no headway.
Three days before I was supposed to leave Spain everyone was going out. Alex and Kristina had a hot dinner date, Natalie was hitting up the clubs, and I didn’t wanna be left out. Earlier in the day Alex and I were out shopping for some sweet Spanish memorabilia to take home with us, and athletic shoes. He suggested I ask Jennie to go out that night for an evening of drunken mischief, and as I was feeling unusually confident I rang her up and made the plans. She said she was going to get tapas with her friend Beth but I still viewed it as a date and hoped it would end in penetration. After I bought an España shirt Alex and myself went to the tomb where Queen Isabel and King Ferdinand are buried, no pictures were allowed to be taken in the building but I didn’t particularly care for that rule and so I took one anyway. The second I did my camera broke and started beeping. Some Asian tourist heard and apparently thought it was her place to “shoosh” me, however I made it quite clear through my blasphemous hand gestures to her that it most certainly was not. The camera eventually fixed itself, but I knew God didn’t want me taking anymore pictures, so I put it away.
That night when Alex and Kristina had already left I went to meet Jennie at Correos. We were meeting at 9 but I arrived a little early, sat on the steps and played with my camera. It broke again, only this time the lens wouldn’t go back in. Not wanting to have a bulge in my side pocket any bigger than the one that was already there, I put the camera in my right cargo pocket of my shorts and called my Mom to tell her the sad news about the camera. She consoled me and after I hung up I waited for the girls to show. They did and we proceeded to go to a tapas place down by the river. By about 9:30 we had started drinking, and by about 10:30 we had gone to a fair amount of Tapas bars including LAX, where I consumed several more tinto de veranos. From LAX we headed to Omsaka (something like that) where we met up with Jennie’s other friend who she had called, and he was a guy. He was disheveled and reminded me a little of Sean Penn in “Fast Times at Ridgmont High”. I hate Sean Penn. Displeased with this I decided that drinking more was the best way to feel better. Then we went to a bar called Druids where I again though more alcohol was a very good idea indeed. I chatted with the bartender and text messaged people who weren’t cheating on my in front of my eyes. Alex had apparently texted me earlier to go to GranVia but I missed it, then he sent me one saying to go to Mae West. I turned to invite the others along but when I saw Jennie talking with her latest conquest (who was NOT me) I decided I’d leave alone. I was somewhat drunk at this point and it wasn’t until I arrived at Mae West that I realized I was wearing shorts and sandals, unacceptable unless you’re a Brazillian supermodel with double Ds. I sat outside and waited for my friends to come out so we could do something. I tried to text Alex again but my phone ran out of minutes so I just waited. Then along came Cole, Tommy, Chris, Giles and some other to go to the club. I told them I wanted to go in but couldn’t because of my outfit, but Giles insisted I give it a try. I did and surprisingly the bouncers looked me up and down and still let me in without any trouble.
Once inside I immediately found Alex, Johnny, and Matt, and no sooner did I see them than Johnny gave me a Heiniken. I downed it within minutes then went to the bar to buy another, plus one for Matt and Alex (Johnny didn’t want one). I was pretty drunk at this point, and I don’t know if it was the strobe lights or the techno music but it wasn’t very long before I found myself dirty dancing with Natalie’s sister on the stage. I had to leave several times to go to the bathroom, and on the third time I barely made it to the bathroom without tripping there were so many people (plus I was a little drunk, and as Pete pointed out the next day I was’t walking too well anyway). I decided not to go back and that it would be a much better idea to walk home alone. So at around 3:30am I started my walk back to San Ildelfonso.
I went onto the main road but then decided that a back road would be much faster so I took that. I was just walking along eating my Smints (frutas silvestres flavored) when some very unfriendly Spaniards came at me from behind. I think I tried to run at first but due to the slight stagger and sandals I was unable. They told me to get on my knees and I somehow understood. I remember them laughing and me thinking “at least they won’t find the camera in my cargo pocket” as if cargo pockets were some fucking invisibility shield that Spanish people hadn’t discovered yet. No sooner did I thing that then they reached into my right cargo and took out the camera. This was the last thing I remember.
Flash forward. I wake up and I’m no longer in Granada. At this poing one of two things happened (my memory is still a bit fuzzy). The first is that I woke up in a white building with flowers in vases. It was a nice place, and the best disctiption I can think of for it is the police station from the Fast and the Furious, only what it would have looked like if it weren’t a police station. There was a portly fellow with a mustache sitting at a reception desk. Feeling desperate I asked him “Tienes habitaciones libres?” (do you have any free rooms?) to which he replied whith a stunned look on his face “Este es un mortuorio” (This is a mortuary) I understood what he was saying and decided that even if they did have rooms this was not a place I wanted to be. I somehow left the building and crossed the road to a ditch. (The other, and more likely version of this is that I originally woke up in the ditch, then went into the building, then went back to the ditch). I was on a hill next to what looked like a wide road but with no cars on it. There were no buildings around except for the mortuary, and at the bottom of the hill there was a highway with lots of traffic. It was still pitch black so I couldn’t see more than a skyline off in the distance but even then I was concerned because nothing about this skyline reminded me of Granada. I tried to crawl down the hill to get to the highway but then realized it was a bad idea as I started to slide down it hitting every shrub along the way. I climbed back up, and laid down in the ditch where I passed out. At about 8am when it was light I got up. I didn’t walk more than 200 feet before I found a cab waiting. I told him I had no money but he still took me. I slept through most of the cab ride because I was real tired on account of I slept in a morgue-ditch the night before. When we got to San Ildelfonso I walked inside and made a beeline for Alex’s room. Before I even knocked I had two concerns. First that he might not be there, and second that he’d ignore me because it was 8:30 in the morning. I knocked and called his name. “What is it?” he asked with a less than enthusiastic tone. “I need your help, I got mugged” I told him with the composure of a 9 year old foster child who just met her new pedophile father. He didn’t say anything and the door swung open within about 1.5 seconds. He asked if I was okay and I told him yes, and I just needed my cab paid for. We went down, he paid, and we came back up to my room where he proceeded to check me for stab wounds. He asked how hard they hit me and up to this point I hadn’t even considered that they might have hit me. He then told me to look in the mirror at which time I realized he might have been right. I called my parents (at about 1:30 AM their time) and told them the news, and asked them to cancel my credit cards. After that I reached into my pocket, the only thing left was the box of fruit flavored Smints I’d been eating right before I got mugged. I pushed the button to release one of the Smints to ease my nerves and relax my soul with their strawberry deliciousness. It was then when I received the greatest shock yet; when I pushed the button nothing came out. The muggers had eaten every last one of my fucking Smints, and left me the box as a tease. It was the equivalent of giving a girl a shot glass in a Tiffany’s engagement ring box. It was unacceptable and it was at that moment my mugging was complete. They stole my wallet, phone, and my camera, and my dignity. All that I can forgive, but when they ate my Smints they fucked with the wrong man, one who will have no problem going to the ends of the world leaving innocent casualties in my path in order to smite the Smint thieves and send them back to the bowels of hell from whence they came.
I recovered of course. Two days later Alex, Pam, Natalie and I boarded a bus to Madrid from where we would each fly out of Spain. About 10 minutes down the highway outside Granada I looked up and saw a very familiar hilltop. That was where I had been, and it is there I will begin my quest to lay waist to my muggers and there loved ones.