So we got off the plane in Chicago, and we had, like, 15 minutes to make our connecting flight because the plane from Tucson was late, and of course O’Hare is, like, mega-huge, and we hadn’t eaten anything (because they don’t feed you on the planes anymore because the crappy-ass food they used to serve was apparently expensive crappy-ass food) so we had to buy some second-rate pre-wrapped sandwiches that had lettuce and tomato on them and I don’t like lettuce and tomato on sandwiches (or at all, really, but even after picking them off the whole thing tasted kind of lettuce-and-tomato-y) and we had to run up moving walkways and down escalators and up more moving walkways and people wouldn’t get out of the way and then we ran up more escalators and finally got to our gate and it was only two minutes before the plane was supposed to take off and we got to our seats and then we sat down and whew and then we had to wait for the de-icing machines and sat. On. The. Tarmac. For. A. GODDAMN. HOUR.
So, what, I’m saying is, I know and you know that this Ziggy doesn’t make a single solitary iota of sense (“manages to land”? What the hell does that mean? Is it going to miss the ground and, like, stay in the air?) but after my Chicago hellscape this weekend, I appreciate its sentiment. Its the sort of cartoon I would have drawn, loopy from low blood sugar, while sitting in my too-narrow aisle seat, watching the de-icing apparatus slowly de-ice the wings — right after I drew some lovingly detailed pictures (complete with tasty odor lines) of the delicious, grease-laden, lettuce-and-tomato-free french fries I had intended to buy back when I thought my layover would be an hour long.