Happy Birthday, Dani-girl.
Some stories you can’t make up. This past weekend generated not one, but several.
On Saturday, we met at George Brett’s bar in Kansas City around 4:30. After dinner and drinks, we went over to Kelly’s which is supposedly the oldest bar west of the Mississippi.
Within a few minutes of arriving, I was approached by two young women who asked me to autograph their chests. I took the Sharpie they handed me, and signed both sets as “Drew Carey.”
I also talked one of them into flashing her boobs. Actually, Drew Carey talked one of them into flashing her boobs. We talked for a while and then they returned to their table with their boyfriends.
Sunday morning, I was lying naked on the bed in my hotel room and the maid walked in; finally.
It was a beautiful autumn day at Arrowhead on Sunday for tailgating. We watched a great game which was made even better by the Chiefs win.
On the flight home, I overheard the flight attendants talking about a drunk passenger who had been caught eating chicken nuggets from one of their personal bags.
I didn’t think much of it, and found a row of seats that contained a computer bag, but no passenger. I sat down in the aisle seat but had to get up when the owner of the computer bag returned. She was an attractive woman in her mid-30’s, I guessed.
As we watched the flight attendants demonstrate how to buckle seat belts, the window seat lady started talking to me. She said that she had just been caught eating a chicken nugget from one of the attendant’s bags. I said, “You’re the nugget lady?”
“How do you know the story?” she replied.
I explained what I had heard and she became concerned that she may be removed from the flight. She was trying to get back home to Birmingham, AL from L.A. She had just broken up with her boyfriend whom she had recently met at a gas station. This will make more sense if you continue reading.
For some reason, she wanted to show me her psychiatric files. The two folders were over an inch thick, and I browsed through them. They contained letters from judges and doctors who stated that she had every mental illness known to man. Schizophrenia, depression, bipolar disorder; the list was endless.
She also had a plastic bag full of prescription drugs. There must have been ten bottles in the bag. I took three valiums, slipped them into my pocket, and continued listening to her story.
At times, she would cry, especially when talking about her 15-year old son. At others, she would be smiling and laughing. She took our picture and asked a peculiar question during our final descent into St. Louis.
“Can I go home with you tonight?” she asked.
“I thought you were going to Birmingham,” I replied.
“I’ve been on this plane since this morning, and I’m tired of flying,” she said.
Thinking quickly, I explained that my girlfriend was picking me up at the airport, and probably wouldn’t be too happy if I brought home a girl I had met on the plane.
Undeterred by my comment, she asked me to call my girlfriend and run the idea by her. I told her that probably wouldn’t be acceptable, but wished her well in her travels.
She wrote a short note and her phone number on the outside of a miniature soap she had taken from her hotel. I stuck it in my pocket, and left the airplane faster than Ted Kennedy leaving a car accident.
Strange days indeed.