I am now relaxing, as best as I can under the circumstances being a nervous flier, as our pilot guides this beautiful Fokker into a gradual descent so as to land gently but with pizzazz at brand-spanking new Skunkville Grande Intercountynental Airport.
To be specific, the airplane I am riding at the moment I describe is a Fokker F-27 turbo-prop.... The flying discomfort I feel has nothing to do with riding the fine German plane, and of course by 'riding' this plane....
Not to be obvious, but I mean riding inside the plane as a passenger.... By sayin 'riding', some less attentive or more modern, aviation-naive readers may visualize me somehow clinging for my life to the fusilage, or in a horseman saddle-like position, guy-on-top the plane...
Reader misconceptions which I understand and do not demean -- having actually been such a free-rider myself.
Yes, I have free-ridden, 'been on the outside looking in'.... On occasion when required by my Employer (a way of saving money or making my presence as a traveller on the plane secret...Or for reasons of my own -- riding outside, latched onto the plane's exterior against the tremendous force of the air flow, albeit you are normally travelling in 'thinner air'...
Doing this kind of riding is aided slightly by thinner air at most flying altitudes, and thinner hair or even complete baldness, including some loss of headskin can be the end result if you don't keep your high-altitude light-metal, flyaway-resistant, comfort-heated cowboy hat on as tight and 'right' (re head position) as possible!!!
On my many hair-raising (or hair-losing) occasions of riding a jet 'bareback', eupemistically a form of 'free 'seating' (rather than mundane 'in-plane', pampered, relaxing, comfortable, mainly risk-free -- but -- inside-rider tip-flash: watch that concession wagon and how it's being piloted!!) When I don't have a cowboy style saddle available so that I can't 'ride on top', I can always use my atomic-powered NutcrusherTM gripping gloves* to cling to the holes they make in the fusilage... But the arms can become quite tired and even embarassingly elongated after a lengthy flight.
Preferred by X-Riders are products like the RidemFlyboyTM* Invisi-jet-saddle, which uses temporary molecular fusion of the rider to the plane rather than to a saddle that may be molecularly fused to the top of the plane and to which the High Rider is only attached by conventional means... Although the plane is typically far larger/wider than most any horse, excluding perhaps ones like the Trojan Horse,... So be prepared to ride low in the saddle, except when the plane is say taxiiing, cowboy, because you're of course trying to minimize a huge hundreds of MPH worth of air friction... Perhaps at least 100 times more onerous on the free-rider than shaving friction...
* Not currently available to most U.S. citizens with less than two consecutive years of military service, and two years of intense bareback plane-riding training
As a true-blooded American, you gotta stay low... Just like you used to have to stay low and ride fast when trying to get away from an angry swarm of irate Native Americans (e.g., their homelands ripped out from under them) on horse or ponyback!.
In short, that 400 MPH wind resistance can do more than ruffle your hair!! I've even seen it behead a pencil-necked novice rider before he had even a minute of Skytime under his skybelt. Also, straddling the fusilage of a large airplane, and to a lesser degree the medium-sized Fokker we've been talkin' about, can almost split a man in half, so consider the pros and cons of riding side-saddle, based on the flexibility of your groin...Dig into yogu and other weird but time-proven disciplines... This is no time to be too gungho about retaining your masculinity... that is, if you want to retain it!
And yes...it is true that some riders understandably downgrade their ego and just use a plane-hugging approach, again aided by moecular fusion saddles that (hopefully, when working properly) temporarily fuse the rider to the outside of the plane.
Well, enough of that macho foderol.... Back to reality.... I notice that I become anxious just in the inevitable approach of arrival in supposedly booming Skunkville.... You may not realize that NarratCo, a company that supplies potential relief and even hope for troubled works of fictionalized reality, like this here 'bloated monstrosity' you are for some reason reading... Has already provided emergency professional relief or added help in a number of cases recently to poor Skunkville ...To keep this huge blockbuster of poorly thought-out, pointless BS but occasionally....????.....barely alive on life support....
Of course a handful drawn from large samples of unbiased people who are coerced by signicant sums to read a bit of Skunkville Saga as far as they can go -- become lost in its endless depths... claiming it unbeatable! Then comes hospitalization...For some, they never see the realworld again...
Have you heard about the realworld magazine more than a half century ago that guaranteed to drive you Mad!!??
Yes, this blog has put amateurs, voyeurs, provocateurs, and even racoonteurs at its creative helm too often...not solid word- or world-shapers..... nor inspired, reader-pleasing tale-tellers or titillators...No one can seem to get a grip, a handle on -- get their arms around this 'bloated monstrosity' as described by my absentee employer....
But then again, I may have misunderstood what the job of, or even the spelling of, a racoonteur was. Even if they had meant raconteur, e.g., someone who likes to regale others with their personal collection of interesting little antidotes and family and friend tales, e.g., a la Skunkville -- Well, again, I could be wrong, unless the person has earned a doctorate in antidotes....But why would they do this kind of cheap, low-profile blogslave labor if they could be pulling in the big bucks in the medical field...
Anyway, if my track record holds true (5:23 in the 440 at Wet Weasel High School), why worry? I'm fairly young, footloose and fancy-free (against my wishes and thus unfortunately: I'd much rather be tied down by a beautiful woman (or perhaps for you: guy, depending on gender/preference)). But I can't dwell on these sad insights, which would put a gloomy tint on my racontales, or raconteurages, or whatever, if they really give me a pen that works!
The company that has just hired me for this raconteurial salvage job keeps sending me urgent messages on my Palm Peanut that explain that a racoonteur is a minor, hardly recognized, thus unimportant raconteurial subgroup: i.e., one who enjoys recounting to friends and acquaintances engaging supposedly true or at least truth-based stories involving racoons as a key element... and that group makes up approximately only 0.0003% of all recorded or second-hand-reported raconteurial tales in a given year, at least within the U.S.A... So market importance and annual $$ makes that a business hardly worth mentioning. So, I won't: there: I'm done with whatever that distraction was!
And now I have to deal with this Fokker of a little plane as it passes through the turbulence that almost always surrounds Skunkville...some say of Devil Doll's doing. But who's he?
I'm one of but a few passengers (I don't even remember seeing much of the crew, either, but then again, I have been very distracted lately with...)....
Hmmm... I seem to be hearing a sinister but tinny little voice, but one that leaves a long echo in my brain, it's message penetrating deep, 'up to the hilt'.
It metalically grates: ''Sorry, young travelling man of the world. But did I hear you mention my name by any chance?'
I spend some time studying the weird little doll-like entitty, then ask: 'And whom, may I ask, sinister-looking little fellow: Whom are you?'
DD, shaking his head: 'Ooo-oo Ooo-ooo (shaking his squeaking, rusty head, then turning the question back at me: Whom are you?'
Me: 'Well, first, whom the Fokker are you?'
DD: 'No, whom the Fooker are you, you, you, you, you, you, you...
yooooouuuuuuuu...???'