The flight I had reserved while crocked with Chilean beer departed Buenos Aires at 7am. This too was a judgment tumble I fault on inebriation. While my cerebrum considered my 7am almost $700 flight as logical as Spencer and Heidi's fame (8pm or 10pm departure would have been far more rational), my intoxicated self was as satisfied with the purchase as the Lion King's Simba.
My last night in Argentina, one of the Aussies strategized a shoe search, as determined to locate a pair of suitable shoes as Star Jones was to lose weight. The other two Aussies and I ordered a bottle of wine. In a mall (picture). The bottle was properly presented, fitting, as far as I’m concerned, for Sir Elton John. We three clinked glasses in cheers, drank our mall wine, and thus commenced the alcohol consumption. Four bottles and a steak dinner later, I clambered to bed at 4:15am and arose at 4:50am to pack and depart for the airport, a forty-minute drive away. In a half-coma from exhaustion and intoxication, I sank in to a siesta in the back seat of the taxi, my head on my bag. My brain was apparently under the impression that I was Frank the Tank. My life did not appreciate this. I sleep-stumbled in to the airport to encounter a scene from the show ER. 97.9% of the multitudes milling about wore surgical masks. I wasn’t sure if this was the O.R. or the airport. I oscillated my head back and forth - as if observing a tennis match - contemplating that I might have guzzled seventeen drinks too many and my mind was ambushing me. This would not be the first time. In high school I had awoken convinced one of my friends was pregnant. I called her to inquire if I could be the God Mother (I’ve always felt I would make a champion God Mother) should she keep the kid, when she reminded me she was still a virgin and I must have been dreaming.
I queried a masked airport employee why everyone looked like medics. He had the approachability of Jack the Ripper and yelped at me that it was because of N1H1. He then convulsed and speed-walked away. I wondered if he was training for a speed-walk race, or if he considered me contaminated because I was inhaling more than my own alcohol exhalations. I scrutinized what he had said. I hadn't read the news in a few days and didn't know what N1H1 was, but was relatively certain it didn't pertain to food or alcohol, as I have fraternized with most of those vocabularies. I inferred N1H1 must be an airborne disease. I have long been confident of my virtually impregnable personage. I incur a disease every three to four years, in the forms of Whooping Cough, Walking Pneumonia, or Viral Bronchitis, but otherwise am as healthy as Popeye. My last contagion was two years ago. Thus, I deduced I was safe from whatever N1H1 was and would not anguish over apprehension. I embarked on the airplane as perplexed as a turkey on Thanksgiving, margined by masked people. I made a mental note to Google N1H1.
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