15 May 2006

Lear. B-17. One-Ton Woman.

I owned a private Lear Jet. It had the latest electronics in it: a widescreen plasma TV up front and an Xbox 360. Plush seating, a shower. I loved flying it around and taking off from a dream-insane airport surrounded by a graveyard for old aircraft.

I told a friend of mine (I've never seen him before, he was mid-thirties) and a group of friends (I've never seen them either - they were all mechanics) that I would help him refurbish a B-17 (an older series without all the gun emplacements, so we were also going to try to make it closer to a G series). We started off by decaling the frame with modern graphic sensibilities. Once it was all put together, he had failed to properly service one of the engines, and on its first test, that engine burst into flame and ruined all our work. He didn't want to take credit for the mistake, and decided to mope around my Lear instead.

Then, for no reason at all, I also had a one-ton woman who refused to leave my Lear. I tried to push her out, but I had trouble just lifting one of her enormous fat rolls. Eventually, someone (a therapist or HR type, blonde, middle-aged, in a business suit and skirt) came in and convinced her that being one-ton wasn't normal, nor did society have to accept her - and I most certainly didn't have to accept her taking up residence in my aircraft, and keeping it grounded with her weight.

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