Propeller Skies

Currently, here in the Dirty South, speculating about the impending bankruptcy of Delta is a popular topic of conversation. Personally, I think Delta deserves to go bankrupt because they fucking suck ass. Every flight I have ever taken on Delta, which would be about a dozen, has been delayed. Once, I even had to spend the night in Cincinatti after sitting on the runway for four flippin’ hours.

In six months of riding MARTA, the train had issues once, because some dumbass decided to walk on the tracks and get killed. This was, however, a minor inconvenience and much more pleasant than spending a night in Ohio.

Comparing Delta to public transit is an insult to public transit. Public transit is cheaper, has better schedule adherence, and is more customer service oriented than Delta. I hereby apologize to any transit agencies I may have offended with this post.

A big shout out to the jackass who got himself killed by a MARTA train today. There is a no trespassing sign and fence around the tracks for a reason, retard. Thanks for holding up my commute.

Alert Propeller Skies readers will remember that I attended MARTA Pub Crawl VI way back in May. Since it was a decent time, I decided to check out MARTA Pub Crawl VIII on Saturday afternoon. In contrast to the previous pub crawl that started in Underground, where large caliber firearms are required for survival, this one started at Houlihan’s in the airport, where weapons of any kind are illegal.

On the train ride to the airport, I figured it would be prudent to invent a cover story in case I was stopped by the TSA for looking suspicious. I figured the truth would not do, since it is highly unlikely that anyone would show up at the airport for the sole purpose of drinking. I imagine the conversation with the TSA would go something like this, “Excuse me sir, why are you wandering around looking suspicious?”

“I’m here to go on the MARTA Pub Crawl and get bombed.”

“Step over here and put your hands against the wall.”

“Let me clarify that officer, I am here to get wasted and ride the train, not to bomb the airport and ride the train.”

“Take him to Gauntanamo Bay and lock him up with all the other terrorists.”

Obviously, getting sent to Guantanamo Bay and being tortured would suck a big sloth ball, so I came up with the plan of scanning the arrivals, picking a city, and claiming I was at the airport to meet a friend coming in. As it turns out, all this plotting was for naught, because like all government workers, the TSA agents were far too busy standing around doing nothing to bother me. I met up with the other pub crawlers at Houlihan’s without incident.

College Park was the second stop on the pub crawl. The first commenter to correctly name the college that was in College Park will win… Absolutely nothing! We visited the bar next to the Feed Store. I have no idea what the name of this bar was, as they could not be bothered to supply any matchbooks. Despite the oversight with regard to matchbooks, this was a very nice bar done in the ubiquitous loft theme. I had a Flying Dog Pale Ale at this stop, which was pretty good. Not quite as zesty as Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, but a worthy contender.

East Point was the next stop. I am unclear as to what, exactly, East Point is east of. However, it is directly south of West End. We dropped in on the East Point Corner Tavern (EPCT), which totally rocks because they have three dollar bottles of Rolling Rock. To celebrate this good fortune, I had about five. Just as the pub crawl was about to leave the EPCT, recurring Propeller Skies character Michael and Andrea met up with us. We opted to stay and have a few drinks, with the intention of catching up to the rest of the pub crawlers later.

Eventually, we wandered down the street to Oz pizza to grab a few slices. At first, I was concerned that some burley convict would anally rape me. Fortunately, the place was named after the movie and not the television show. They serve some mighty tasty slices that are almost as good as Sal’s in Buffalo.

After eating, we tried to catch up with the rest of the pub crawl in Midtown at Stool Pigeons. I have no idea why the fuck anyone would name any damn thing after rats with wings. Despite the goofy name, it is a rather nice place to hang out. We missed the pub crawl crew and decided to just chill there. After a few drinks, we hit Midtown Station and headed home.

This event was a good time and clued me in to some swell places on the south side. Prior to this adventure, I assumed the south side was nothing but a wasteland of chains like TGIFridays and Houlihan’s. Discovering some new bars convenient to MARTA was excellent, because transit oriented drinking is becoming a favored pastime of mine, since I can drink as much as I want and not worry about getting hassled by the pigs. As I was crossing the Downtown Connector on my way home, I noticed the DUI task force busted some poor bastard.

On the train ride home from work yesterday, I encountered yet another type of annoying transit rider. This one was loudly singing along to a hopelessly syrupy R&B ballad. Unfortunately, her voice was so terrible that in comparison William Hung sounds like Hope Sandoval.

The Unabathers are a type of smelly person found on MARTA. These are people that never take showers and a trail of noxious body odor follows them everywhere. In contrast to The Farters, The Unabathers are easy to avoid, because of their unkempt appearance.

Thanks to all the dumb motherfucking meth addled hicks in the red states Jesusland, I have recently been spending some quality time riding public transportation. Since scraping up the money to fix my hooptie is pretty much an impossibility in this goddamn fucking Bush economy.

While riding public transit, I have come across various types of smelly people. The Farters are one particularly despicable type of smelly people. The Farters are nefarious, because they operate in stealth mode and are extremely difficult to distinguish from normal riders until they discharge a vile smelling silent but deadly (SBD) fart. As a rule, they also have impeccable timing, waiting until the rail car is packed to launch a devastating barrage of SBDs.