Thank You for Choosing United Airlines

UA5169 AUS-IAH/UA46 IAH-FRA/LH328 FRA-VCE

March 11, 2012

So where is my God-Damned Mother Fucking LUGGAGE Mother Fuckers?!?!

SHIT!

I did what I was supposed to do: checked in by 3:31 for a 5:15 flight that didn’t take off until 6:40-whatever. Land in Houston to sit on the fucking tarmac an additional 20 minutes to wait for a gate to open. Houston B concourse is littered with loads of people shit-out-of-luck (probably most waiting to get to Austin – suckers!). I desperately wanted to mow down some old fucking couple in front of me, but I maintained civility to move past them as soon as some fucking white college-aged dread-locked hippy tramp moved her shit-stained carry-on out of the fucking way. God. Damn. Then run for fucking end of E (why is it always the last fucking gate of E? 4^th time in a row I’ve had to run for that god-damned gate! MOVE IT CLOSER!).

Assholes.

So – yeah – I get to the gate as they’re closing the mother fucking door. Shit!

Did they call the gate to see if I was coming? Continental always did.

What do I get? Some shitty fucking gate “agent” telling me to move it on to the plane quickly because they’re closing the door. I’m like… “my luggage should be…” and was abruptly cut off by (now named) Fucking Gate Bitch saying that she was about to pull my (fucking) luggage off the plane. How the fuck does my luggage make it to the plane faster than me?

Ok. Thinking its the continued magic of Continental who has never left my luggage behind. Ever. And I’ve made it to the plane in the same fucked up time reference three times previous. Meanwhile, Fucking Gate Bitch keeps talking about pulling luggage off the plane. I’m thinking Holy Fucking Shit! This doesn’t sound right. I turn around to quickly (desperately) describe my luggage (with distinctive characteristics = easy to find) but no – Fucking Gate Bitch tells me to “JUST GET ON THE PLANE”.

I’m fucked. Adding to the doom: Fucking Gate Bitch erased my seat reservation, gave it to some other mother fucker, and fucking reassigned me to the fucking isle. What. The. God. Damned. Fuck.

Shit.

Fuck you “United” Airlines.

Adding salt to the wound we SAT at the FUCKING HOUSTON GATE for nearly and HOUR so Fucking Gate Bitch could order some poor souls to pull luggage from the plane. Was one unlucky piece mine? Couldn’t some mother fucker have noticed mine wasn’t on the fucking plane? Is the Fucking Gate Agent = God?

Fuck.

On the bright side – the Lost Luggage/Lufthansa staff at Marco Polo couldn’t have been more kind and helpful. Especially when they discovered my luggage at this time was still in FUCKING HOUSTON. And I’ve got a train to catch to Ferrara (1 ½ hrs away). They promise that it’s no problem to deliver it. How long will I be staying there? (note to self: lie next time and say only 1 day)

Post under: this is a public service announcement from the ministry of don’t fuck with my luggage mother fucker.

DAY 2 – Ferrara

It’s kind of hard to enjoy a new place when you’re still wearing the same fucking clothes as yesterday. Thanks United “We Don’t Give a Shit About Your Luggage” Airlines. Fuck you.

Meanwhile – the Lost Luggage/Lufthansa staff at Marco Polo couldn’t have been more appologetic as they explained, due to time difference, that the records were showing that the luggage is till in (fucking) Houston but they were quite hopeful it would be here by the evening flight. Could I call back in the afternoon – say 4 or 5pm?

It’s Italy – the office closes at 6pm. Good luck trying to ring through. EU busy signal is burned in my memory. Forever.

Fuck.

That means if it does come in today it will be too late to deliver today. Which means tomorrow. Maybe.

Day is spent finding suitable toiletries (try finding proper sunscreen in Italy. I dare you) and other necessities because, well, it’s Italy – time moves in mysterious ways here.

DAY 3 – Ferrara

Another couple of hours waiting to get through on the phone.

Shit. I could have hopped a train, picked up my own fucking luggage, been back and enjoyed a couple of choice lattes in between, then out sightseeing in the time it took me to confirm that my luggage had arrived. Last Fucking Night.

News Flash: phones work both ways folks. Just sayin…

At least they gave me the number for the delivery service: “the deliverya is between noonah and threeah. Or maybeah oneah and threeah. That should be good – no?”

Sure, I’ll take it. I have a time frame. I think.

Rather than get lost in a walled maze – I wait. It’s only a few hours at most. Right?

2:58 pm

Sure. What the fuck? I’ve still got a full bottle of wine.

3:52 pm

Luggage delivered.

Fuck you, United. Fuck. You.