Shyzer.com

I know it seems like the last trillion words I’ve posted here on Shyzer have been recapping trips I’ve been making, but this past weekend I flew down to Columbia for the Carolina-Clemson game and to see Fellner and The Fellas. This trip was actually mandatory for me. Some of you may remember a little thing called “The Goob Experience“ which Fellner “won.” Well, for his potpourri option, he had stipulated that I must attend one Carolina football game this year and seeing as how I’d yet to go to one and this was the last game of the season (minus our kickass bowl bid that we’ll get thanks to our surprising record!), I figured I should fulfill my duties. Fellner actually used this as his wish in an attempt to make sure I came home from Australia, since he was worried I might have stayed there past my allotted four months my first time around. Looks like he was onto something there.

I didn’t come home until Monday afternoon and was supposed to be flying right back down to South Carolina today for Thanksgiving, but the flights were full and there was no way I was cramming Clay, Julianne, Colton, and myself in a two seat pickup truck for an 8 hour drive over the Thanksgiving holidays. So looks like the four of us will be spending Thanksgiving here in Virginia together.

But all these flights I’ve taken lately remind me of something. So far in 2005, I’ve taken 11 plane trips, with a few more planned in December as well. As I’ve boarded each plane, but especially during the four trans-Pacific flights I took, the same exact thought has run through my head.

Let’s see here…if we were to crash like on LOST, I wonder if this group of yahoos would make it…

Let’s just say each time I’ve been less than thrilled with our chances. First off, there aren’t enough hot chicks on the planes, plain and simple. How am I supposed to survive without a Kate or Sun or dear God, even without a Claire to help me through my recent trauma? I travel with extra jars of peanut butter in my luggage just in case there’s a Claire on board. But hell, there aren’t even enough young people on the planes these days. It seems like each time the ratio of people under the age of 25 is about 5%. I’m not gonna be able to defeat the Others single handedly here, folks, especially if the rest of my crash mates are geriatrics or lying on the beach because lifting anything heavier than a coconut tires them out.

But what about jobs? I’m no doctor, so I can’t be Jack. I’ve got no hunting skills beyond the fact that I can point a gun and shoot fairly accurately, so Locke’s out of the question. I haven’t been in the army before and I can’t repair electronics unless I have Google to walk me through it, so sayonara Sayid. I’m not a con artist, I’m not a lady’s man, I can’t play a guitar and sweep an Aussie chick off her feet, I’m not worth $140 million dollars, and I can speak English. So Sawyer, Charlie, Hurley, and Jin are crossed out. Oh, and I’m not black, so I can’t be the token black guy. That leaves Boone…great, I get to be the one sacrificed to the island. Son of a bitch…

But what about my crash mates? Maybe they can help me pick up the slack, right? Well, in recent flights I’ve sat next to a businessman, a preacher, a businessman, a guy who drooled while he slept the whole way, a businessman, a guy who had the Federal Marshal come up and threaten to arrest him if he didn’t stop bitching about not having a cold beer on board, and another businessman. Seriously, are companies still doing meetings and crap like this nowadays to where so many businessmen have to fly around? Haven’t they ever heard of conference calls and the Internet and VOIP and the high prices of traveling? I don’t think I want to be stranded with some pencil pusher who just sits around in meetings all day and tries to sell Xerox machines or dog food packaging or whatever the hell it is these guys are actually doing.

See, this is how my brain works folks. I don’t worry about crashing and dieing instantly in a giant fireball. I don’t worry about being stranded alone on an island like Tom Hanks in Castaway. I worry about crashing on a deserted island and being stranded for an indefinite period of time with a group of idiots whom I don’t like.

So to recap. We need more hot, young, females who can take care of me by hunting food and fixing my wounds and all that jazz to start flying more often. Preferably the flights from Washington DC to South Carolina and Sydney, since that’s what I fly most often. Yeah, I’m liking the sound of this plane wreck the more I think about it…