I’ve flown all over the place in my life. As far west as Vegas, east to New York, and dozens of cities in between. I’ve flown to and from London and Rome.

And each one of those flights was an exercise in manifest horror; a crushing, suffocating, paralyzing, marrow-sucking flirtation with impending doom. The Devil come to dinner.

My name is Rat Fink, and I am an aviophobe.

Yes, yes, I’ve been told by intelligent, well-meaning people about how you’re more likely to die in a car crash or by crossing the street or playing Twister or blowing your nose, blah, blah, blah. Those folks don’t get me (or the thousands of other slobs out there like me). Logic doesn’t play well with phobias. Just ask John Madden, Whoopi Goldberg, Doris Day, Sean Bean, Sarah Jessica Parker, Kirsten Dunst, Jennifer Aniston, Cher, and Woody Allen. All airplane weenies, just like Yours Truly.

So you can imagine my drop-jaw revulsion at reading about the Airbus Superluxe A380, rolled out by both Singapore Airlines and Saudi Arabia’s Emirates Airlines. The thing is a veritable titan, weighing a mere 560 tons (that’s 1.2 million pounds) and seating 555.

It’s the ultimate in luxury (although out of those 555 seats, only 14 are first-class “suites”). You, too, can travel in this kind of splendor — for $14,000 a ticket.

Check out the photos below. No doubt it’s an amazing machine. You’ll just never get me on it.

Maybe someday I’ll go for desensitization therapy or something. I might need it sooner than I think; I’m supposed to fly next summer to speak at a convention. I’m still trying to figure out how I can make Lincoln, Nebraska a driving vacation destination with the Thriller. Hmmm.

Anyway, here are some incredible photos, courtesy of Airbus.

And to get the full effect, you have to look at this one up-close and personal-like.

Phobia Phink out. (Don’t get me started on boats…)

The rest of the country has its problems and embarrassing issues. Ohio has Richard Cooey. It’s all over the news: “I’m too fat to be executed.”

Now….in the history of the American legal system, there has got to be an issue as stupid as this. Somewhere. I’m still looking.

The cynic in me wonders what his two victims thought after he raped them before bludgeoning them to death. What if they’d said, “I’m too young to be executed; I’m only 21. I should be allowed to live.”

The disgusted taxpayer in me says, “Put him on a FRIGGIN DIET.” He’s in a maximum security facility, fuh cripesake. Control what he eats. Prosecute the people who smuggle in Twinkies. I’ve been paying for him to gorge himself in prison for 20 years while other kids in Ohio go hungry. It ain’t right.

*sigh* … only in Ohio.

All right, time to hit the shower and the school house.

Fink out.

It’s on. It draws near.

My feast, I mean. My birthday feast. It’s a tradition in our family that everyone gets a feast on their birthday, with a menu completely of their own choosing, right down to the dessert. They also have to provide several answers to this question:

What would you like for your birthday?

Here’s what makes me mad. I tell myself every year that I am going to keep a list of little things here and there that I notice online or in the stores that might be good to ask for as a birthday gift, because I always, always forget as time goes on. But do I actually compose such a document?

So when Mavis and the Thriller say, “Be thinking of some ideas of what you might like so we can tell the family,” I hit that Start/Search function to find the Word file that I *know* must be there because I said I was going to keep a list…

But, alas.

Fortunately, my family are great gift hunters. They always seem to find the coolest things, even though I’ve been a loser and haven’t given them a single idea. But they’re also very practical, and seek to get gifts that the recipient will use and enjoy. Simply stated, they just bat 1.000 for everyone, every year.

So, the days grow short. Hey, I know — a resolution. I will take care of the Git List this very morning, before I start on my Schoenberg assignment. [O Freude, O Glück. I fear it is time to shoot myself.]

Fink out (of ideas already).

Random Neuron Firings

So I was reading this article about Kevin Costner last night, where he commented about other people’s arrogance. Sheesh. The shy, sweet, self-deprecating guy you saw on Dances With Wolves and Field of Dreams — this ain’t it. He apparently took the “Soul” train straight to Schmucksville.

To all my friends who work for someone else (like, for instance, teachers): a timely reminder.

The RIAA is getting more bizarre and stupid with its claims (if that’s possible). Proof that you shared that song? We don’t need no steenking proof. Constitution shmonstitution, as long as we’re rich.

I’ve seen pictures of beautiful women and I think, “How do they look so incredibly perfect?” I mean, I know there are retouches done (cripes, my own photo on the About the Fink page illustrates that), but I wasn’t aware of the crazy extent it can reach. Check out this video:

[quicktime]http://finkweb.org/wp-content/uploads/2008/08/transformation.mov[/quicktime]

Yeah. That makes me feel a little better.