1/23/2007
Weekend Grievances
Did you know that if it rains in Phoenix, it’s nearly impossible to fly? Not a hard rain, either, just a light mist? Well, apparently it is. And that is why, after sitting on the runway waiting for takeoff for an hour and a half on Sunday, I missed all but the last two minutes of the Bears game. A light fucking mist -- one which lasted for the entire 48 hours we were in Arizona.
Now I am by no means a Bears fan, however I like sports and wanted nothing more than to get home, throw some chili on the stove, knock back a few whiskey gingers and watch some championship football. Instead, I was left fuming in my seat on flight 2009, with an old fat guy coughing up a lung and/or kidney behind me and to my right, some hick who couldn’t figure out how to turn his god damn air vent off, so he stuck his fucking gum over it. When that didn’t work (it caused the gum to blow a bubble), he then covered it with a band aid. Way to go, MacGyver.
But there were actual Bears fans on my flight, and I could not have felt any worse for them, as they sat in their seats, just waiting to at least be able to check the score on their phones, let alone watch their franchises biggest game in twenty years like they were planning on (apparently AirTran has XM radio on their flights, which really would have come in handy. Get on that, Southwest Airlines). Last October, The Lady Friend and I were flying back from Minneapolis a few hours before the Cards took on the Padres in game four of the NLDS. If that flight would have been an hour and a half late, I would have eaten somebody. So I commend those Bears fans on their restraint and lack of cannibalistic intentions.
(Actually, that flight from the Twins was a little late, but that just led to one gigantic rush to Nick’s Pub; catching the radio pre-game waiting for our shuttle on the Lambert curb washed in that magical exuberance and life which engulfs this city during October, speeding down 170 like we had a police escort, walking into Nicks in the bottom of the first and having a bucket of Buds with my name on them waiting for me – good memories, really.)
This was after a frustrating weekend of conversing the many high and/or byways of Phoenix, most of which were closed for construction. It’s not that I mind roads being closed (progress and all that), but if somebody is flying in from out of town and renting a car, I would expect the people renting them said car would mention said road closings. This would be akin to someone renting a car in St Louis come March and not being told that highway 40 will be closed. Yeah, it may very well happen, but it’s just fucking discourteous and a little rude.
Of course rude is probably the proper term for the transgendered gentlemen at Alamo who rented us our 4Runner Friday afternoon. I had the car booked for two days at a total of $150, so I was more than a little shocked when he handed us the receipt and was trying to charge us $411 dollars. Four hundred and eleven dollars. For not even 48 hours worth of a car. After I was told it would be $150 total, after taxes, fees, and the like.
We eventually talked this charlatan down to around $200-ish (“No, we don’t want your insurance, we have our own. No, we don’t want a non-prorated tank of gas. No, we don’t want undercoating and rust proofing. No, we don’t want vapor lock protection. If you don't stop all of these shenanigans, I will take your mother out to a nice seafood dinner and never call her again.”), with the $50 bump coming from the fact that TLF is six months shy of that magical 25th birthday which will make her ever so much more responsible and, apparently, a better driver.
Never again, Alamo. Never again.
(Of course, this is what I get for not listening to Moose and going with Enterprise. If an Enterprise car can get that nerd laid at his ten year reunion, it’s obviously the bees’ knees.)
So, in conclusion, fuck Phoenix and their constant light mist, construction delays, swindling car rentals, and scrappy white point guards. Fuck them right in the ear.
(Although, to be fair, the wedding was lovely and our room at the Hampton Inn was more than accommodating. But their breakfast buffet reeked.)
Now I am by no means a Bears fan, however I like sports and wanted nothing more than to get home, throw some chili on the stove, knock back a few whiskey gingers and watch some championship football. Instead, I was left fuming in my seat on flight 2009, with an old fat guy coughing up a lung and/or kidney behind me and to my right, some hick who couldn’t figure out how to turn his god damn air vent off, so he stuck his fucking gum over it. When that didn’t work (it caused the gum to blow a bubble), he then covered it with a band aid. Way to go, MacGyver.
But there were actual Bears fans on my flight, and I could not have felt any worse for them, as they sat in their seats, just waiting to at least be able to check the score on their phones, let alone watch their franchises biggest game in twenty years like they were planning on (apparently AirTran has XM radio on their flights, which really would have come in handy. Get on that, Southwest Airlines). Last October, The Lady Friend and I were flying back from Minneapolis a few hours before the Cards took on the Padres in game four of the NLDS. If that flight would have been an hour and a half late, I would have eaten somebody. So I commend those Bears fans on their restraint and lack of cannibalistic intentions.
(Actually, that flight from the Twins was a little late, but that just led to one gigantic rush to Nick’s Pub; catching the radio pre-game waiting for our shuttle on the Lambert curb washed in that magical exuberance and life which engulfs this city during October, speeding down 170 like we had a police escort, walking into Nicks in the bottom of the first and having a bucket of Buds with my name on them waiting for me – good memories, really.)
This was after a frustrating weekend of conversing the many high and/or byways of Phoenix, most of which were closed for construction. It’s not that I mind roads being closed (progress and all that), but if somebody is flying in from out of town and renting a car, I would expect the people renting them said car would mention said road closings. This would be akin to someone renting a car in St Louis come March and not being told that highway 40 will be closed. Yeah, it may very well happen, but it’s just fucking discourteous and a little rude.
Of course rude is probably the proper term for the transgendered gentlemen at Alamo who rented us our 4Runner Friday afternoon. I had the car booked for two days at a total of $150, so I was more than a little shocked when he handed us the receipt and was trying to charge us $411 dollars. Four hundred and eleven dollars. For not even 48 hours worth of a car. After I was told it would be $150 total, after taxes, fees, and the like.
We eventually talked this charlatan down to around $200-ish (“No, we don’t want your insurance, we have our own. No, we don’t want a non-prorated tank of gas. No, we don’t want undercoating and rust proofing. No, we don’t want vapor lock protection. If you don't stop all of these shenanigans, I will take your mother out to a nice seafood dinner and never call her again.”), with the $50 bump coming from the fact that TLF is six months shy of that magical 25th birthday which will make her ever so much more responsible and, apparently, a better driver.
Never again, Alamo. Never again.
(Of course, this is what I get for not listening to Moose and going with Enterprise. If an Enterprise car can get that nerd laid at his ten year reunion, it’s obviously the bees’ knees.)
So, in conclusion, fuck Phoenix and their constant light mist, construction delays, swindling car rentals, and scrappy white point guards. Fuck them right in the ear.
(Although, to be fair, the wedding was lovely and our room at the Hampton Inn was more than accommodating. But their breakfast buffet reeked.)
Labels: A Burning Hatred of Alamo Rentals, Stuff You Probably Don't Care About
Comments:
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That is awesome! I am going to have to take a huge pack of gum on my next flight and plug up all the vents around me. We'll have a big bubble gum bubble party. It will be great!
I hear that vapour lock is the third most common automotive malfunction in America.
Now, who told me that... was it Johnny Unitas? Hmm.
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Now, who told me that... was it Johnny Unitas? Hmm.
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