nukethermo on Collarspace

10/19/2014 3:51:49 AM

While I was in my late 20's I traveled a lot working for a major Military Contractor. Being young and single volunteering to fly as a point man at bases across the country was a no brainier. Boy did I rack up the Air Mileage. Well... one day my luck ran out.... There I was looking at my First Class Upgraded seat and a voice from the figure I was to sit next to looked up with a toothy grin. With eye brows that raised as he offered his pasty white hand, my new First Class neighbor yodeled, "Well Hi Son! Looks like we are sitting next to each other on this flight. I am Pat Robertson. Pleased to meet you." A Week before I had a great 5 hour Flight Drinking Scotch with WOLFMAN JACK! DAMN. Payback is a Bitch. WOLFMAN HELP!! YES I was going to share 2 hours from Atlanta to DC trapped in a seat next to... PAT ROBERTSON. Until this point in time I loved upgrading to First Class. Never have I wanted to terminate a life more than I did on the trip. I tend to be a pretty friendly guy. No Really! I look at the "Faithful" as being a afflicted with "Religious Psychosis" not to be ridiculed but to be seen as handicapped. But this was one of the HUCKSTER'S that led the innocent down the road to nowhere. Plus this was during Robertson's Heroic Claims of his Military Past. Heck he was suing Congressman Pete McCloskey for LIBEL. You see... Robertson had claimed the Marine Corps awarded him three battle stars for 'action against the enemy" ON HEARTBREAK RIDGE! HEARTBREAK RIDGE!!!! His time in the service was not in combat but as the "liquor officer" responsible for keeping the officers' clubs supplied. After a long denial he finally admitted he did not serve in combat. Really. During the Flight he tried to chat me up.. Asking what I did. Where I was from. Was I in the Military. Was I a Saved Christian. Was I a Republican. Where did I go to school. Yadda. Fricken Yadda. Really... I was on my 4th Scotch (and the Cute Stewardess had kept em coming) when... it finally it came around to Fraternities.. I became a bit more interested.. wondering who would want to pledge this idiot. Robertson blabbed.. "Were you a Fraternity Man? I was an Sigma Alpha Epsilon, we were the best house." And he continued on.... I gulped down the last of my 4th Scotch. My pretty Savior dropped 2 little plastic Johnny Walker bottles and a glass of ice on the tray in front of me. She winked and said. "That's the last... we will be landing soon!" As I poured Scotch #5 into the glass of ice I felt the plane turn east. FINALLY. Not much longer and we would be landing at National and I could escape this horror ride. Robertson was now looking out the window saying something... Really the guy was worse than me.. and I am a Talker. He just kept talking. I gulped my now chilled Scotch Number 5 down and turned to him, leaning into his shoulder and putting my mouth close to his ear... "Pat?? Hey Pat... PAT!!!" I almost had to yell. He turned to look at me... Breathing out a Scotch Soaked Growl I said. "PAT. I'm a Sigma BLANK and S.A.E. Sucks!" Yep. Pat Robertson, I had a chance to make a statement. Call him on his being a "Conman for Christ" anything!! But NO... my big comment was not about his being a Huckster. Not about his being a fake war hero. Not about stealing from people who could not afford to give. Not about making fake promises to the sick and dying. Not about how he hurts people, and alienates people. Not about his racist views or about how divisive he was to the nation. Nope. What did I tell him? "Your Fraternity SUCKS!" I turned back in my seat, looked straight ahead and closed my eyes. Knowing I wasted a chance... Yet knowing nothing I could say would matter. Pat Robertson is not living on the same Planet we are. Robertson.. Perked up and was unfazed. "Yep, those Sigma Blank's had a Fine House... Blah Blah..." Truth. Honest Truth. Folks I can't make this stuff up. 30 minutes later I staggered off that plane. That Plane from Hell. Right behind me, step for step Robertson was on my tail. Was I in Hell? The Twilight Zone? My savior came via a Film Team at the exit signalling for Robertson's attention. Believe it or not he patted me on the back and said. "Take Care Son." I stumbled to a Taxi and headed to the Crystal City Marriott. Years later I woke in a cold sweat, not by a nightmare but rather a new clarity on that Horror of a flight so long ago. I think Pat Robertson was hitting on me.