The Hillbilly Viking

When I booked the trip from Chattanooga to Dublin with a plane change in Atlanta, it really didn’t seem like anything more than the most direct route to begin our latest European adventure. The trip across the pond (absolute douchiest expression ever) is always a struggle for me, but nothing I can’t handle. Right?

Well, my sore ass is definitely singing another tune now that it’s spent the better part of thirteen hours clenched and trembling atop the most uncomfortable assortment of committee-designed seating in the entire history of airports, airplanes, airport bars, and body odor-scented taxis. There simply was not enough little bottles of airline bourbon and smuggled, leftover Vicodin from surgery’s past to numb my body and insulate it from my mind’s brilliant fuckin’ planning. 

I’ve said it before. I’ll say it again. Star Trek-like, teleportation technology can’t come fast enough. Beam me to an Irish Pub, Scotty!