Wheelchairs. When there is one of you it’s fine. But when you’re 18 on the same flight. Good Lord. Eighteen motherfucking people about to die on a plane when I got 240 who can use their two feet but need even more attention. That’s too much for me to handle.
You get to board first because you can’t fucking walk. Not to help you carry 100 kgs of carry on luggage. That’s the reason you’re on a wheelchair. Your fucking legs can’t fucking carry your fucking body. For what fuck do you fucking need all these fucking carry on for? The only carry on you should be allowed are collostomy bags.
The assistance you requested was to push you on a wheelchair from the waiting area until the aircraft door. You obviously can’t carry the weight of your own already dead body. Why on earth would you carry all these hand luggage. Why are you even travelling? Stay at home and wait patiently for death to pick you up.
Not only are you a hazard on the plane but as a wheelchair you are most likely to require first aid. I might conduct a CPR on your cadavre but a mouth to mouth. Hell no! My russian red painted lips are not touching your parkinson mouth at all. That would be a dementor’s kiss to me. Picturing it is already giving me flashbacks of the very short life I’ve enjoyed so far. I got some more years to live so please no DVT or heart attack tonight.
Not only are you on a wheelchair but you are deaf too. Fucking great. I didn’t sign up for this because a flight attendant’s life is all about glamour and travelling. I see no glamour in the collostomy bag you leaked on your seat.
It took you half an hour to get on board because checkin gave you a seat right at the back. Can’t wait for the other half hour once you’ll have to disembark. Hoping the ground staff will be on time when we land. Which happens as often as planes being punctual nowadays.
Ask me to get you a diabetic-lacto-vegetarian-kosher-meal but not to disembark 18 wheelchairs with one taking at least 30 minutes to walk through the whole plane up to the door.
Of all the places on earth, including the mall, a garden, or your bed. You chose to die on the plane. That’s why you’re called a WCHR, Waiting Cremation Home Required. Because you’re about to fucking die. What grosses me out is not that you’re dead on that plane. But I had to clean the mess of your collostomy bag and you get to die. At least if you had left that plane alive it wouldn’t have been for nothing.
But now that you’re dead it’s going to take longer before we can get you of the plane. My 18 hour layover is getting reduced while you get to enjoy heaven. Guess I’ll have to bid Sydney again if I want to see the famous opera.
I will be the one needing a wheelchair to get out of that plane after you’ve left. I might head to the funeral with you instead of the Mariott. At least I’ll haunt you as much as you’ve haunted me when you were alive. We might call it being even.