Grim Candy No. 5

Airport Anecdotes

The Tbilisi International Airport isn’t so crowded. Running light on sleep, I made it through the check-in and Passport Control rapidly. The pretty Georgian woman, who was tasked with downloading me the proper version of the Indian e-visa I was granted, looked up at me in exasperation. “Their website is like a mystery!!” She meant labyrinth. “This settles the claim that Indians are superior programmers,” I scoffed. A dry smile, cut short and slight by HR fears, graced the right side of her mouth. Micro-expressions are very real, whereas micro-aggressions are pure communist death philosophy.

I now sit at the gate waiting. An hour to go, three young women sit directly in from of me. One looks pretty normal until you zero in on the eyebrow ring, which you only notice as her two slouching, lumbering companions show up with their trampstamps and bangs that appear as if hacked by Paul Bunyun himself. Boy are they repulsive. “Only human…”, I tell myself.

There are other forms of pit-dwellers and neanderthals here too. Chinese and other odd asian mixes. A minute ago, some dog-eater type with blue contacts and bloated lips was vying for the perfect instagram angle, phone shelved on luggage, and brain shelfed on rot. A Muslim strolls past with three wives in tow. I imagine their home and it’s complete lack of magic mushrooms - or the fun guy’s fruits - and I shudder.

I love exploring and walking the mysterious destinations I visit, seeing all the different cultures and peoples, but the airports can generally suck my big white cock.

There is a Wendy’s and a Subway here. They have made inroads in Georgia, along with Dunkin’. I tried the Wendy’s once out of morbid curiosity and lingering deranged sentiment for salty Mcmerican slop. It was expensive, terrible, and I hope they go bankrupt. I cannot imagine what abominations are shoved down the gullets of the Caucusus-remnant at that horrendous goyslop factory, Subway, as the Georgians post-communist “democracy” lunges its way toward the nightmare you already live in. Don’t like the one Dunkin’ in the Old Town? You can walk DIRECTLY across the cobblestone street to the other Dunkin’. Having arrived, FINALLY, at the apocalypse, they like you before them, will be satisfied; have no complaints.

Outside the airport before, a gaggle of Romanian gypsies offered me half of a bread pouch with rice, greens and seasonings in it. I gobbled it down while one of them puffed on a bubblegum-smelling vape as her toothless companion voiced her concerns, about what I do not know, to another. Thanks to them, I don’t have a temptation to eat the ground up abortions that the elite put in the fast food so they can laugh at God while we assist in their Moloch-worshipping, child-sacrificing globe-ruling cult and it’s black magic invocations.

I asked the Bolt driver this morning what he thought about Stalin. Like many others in these Babylonian law, rule-by-men, wastelands, he shrugs his shoulders, indicating this particular psychopathic antichrist is still held in at least some esteem by the shattered modern, known as Homo-Sovieticus, at the geographic origin of civilization.