Simon is heading over to Melbourne for a mate’s wedding. In the act of familiar tight-arsery, he books his ticket with Tiger for $435 return. Not a bad price, given that Virgin’s cheapest, was $510 and if he is being honest with himself, he never had the slightest intention of checking out what horrific price QANTAS had to offer.
Nope, history has repeated itself once again, and Simon has opted for the cheapest fare possible. He has done this chicken dance before, but the lowest blow to his bank balance has the same effect as that date-rape stick from Men in Black. May God have mercy on his soul.
The actual act of booking the ticket was no walk in the park. Tiger helpfully insists you carefully consider each and every exorbitant extra you can add to your povo ticket. Simon gets frustrated after the 16th option he rejects – c’mon Tiger, do you really think a man who chooses his flight purely based on cheapness is going to be swayed by a $15 pre-heated inflight schmegma-bomb that you pass off as a “meal”?
Simon angrily clicks away and foolishly opts out of paying for some checked luggage. It seems Simon has a tentative grasp on the nature of a “7kg maximum”. He has an even more tentative grasp on the weight of his giant piece of shit Dell laptop that he purchased in 2009 and intends to take with him. The attendant gestures for Simon to weigh his carry-on bag.
“Sorry sir, you have exceeded the 10kg maximum by 4kg, the excess charges come to $80”. Simon’s sunny disposition is suddenly hit by a thunderstorm of stingeirage, “excuse me?” The heavily make-up’d Tigeress shoots him some useful information: “you can just go and get rid of some stuff if you like”.
Simon stands to the side of the queue and starts methodically slipping into every garb that he brought. 3 pairs of pants, 3 t-shirts, 2 button up shirts, a suit jacket and towel. The other passengers flick him judgmental stares. Simon is struggling under the burdensome weight of his own tightness, as he stashes his laptop cord and electric shaver in his jacket pocket.
He waddles back to the front of the queue and avoids the excess baggage charge. He now has a smug look on his face, even though he looks like the kind of half-cocked drug mule that can’t believe they are getting the slippery fingers of justice inserted up their moronic cavities.
Naturally, Simon didn’t opt for the $6 fee to book his seat. Naturally, that means he is sitting in the middle seat next to two overweight mouth-breathers that are almost certainly going to give Simon the unrequited joy of being put on a spit by a couple of Dugongs which intend to use their own Cheezel flavoured sweat as lubricant.
The shit-for-brains sitting in front of Simon decides that he fancies a bit of seat inclination. Simon’s knee presses up against the sad reality of inconsideration. He stares at the Tiger menu, “fuck this shit, I need a drink”.
He orders VB after VB in an attempt to numb the experience. One of the mouth-breathers decides to crack a tin of tuna that he brought from home. The rich aroma of mermaids-vagina fills the cabin. Simon is approaching breaking point.
Finally, the plane lands at Tullamarine and Simon enjoys his 3km walk through the makeshift adventure course that Tiger calls a terminal. Simon thanks Tiger for the well needed brisk walk and buys a ticket for the Sky Bus. On the bright side, he has the experience to look forward too again in a few days.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?