Blame Someone (2007)
Red is the third person in line. Why? Because if you’re told to get to the airport three hours before take-off, you get to the fucking airport three hours before take off. At least, you do if you paid almost a grand for the ticket—assuming you’re not functionally retarded. Red turns and glowers at the hordes of travelers standing restlessly behind him. The line trails off vaguely a hundred yards later, blending into the wandering masses moving along the main passageway, idiotically dragging their identical wheeled bags.
Unless, of course, you equate abject stupidity with “risk-taking” and are gambling on the airlines’ inability to run a lemonade stand, let alone open a ticket counter on time. Safe bet. Still, it is just that—unless it’s too reasonable to do without that extra half-hour of sleep and remove all questions from the equation. Now that would require some sophisticated juggling of priorities. Red folds his spindly arms across his sagging chest and glares down at the toes peeking out below his increasingly rotund gut. Black canvas shoes. Which would, dare even suggest it, require being in possession of something resembling priorities.Empty folding tables are inexplicably set up beside the line of waiting passengers. Three Continental Airlines employees are lounging against them, talking and laughing. Laughing. As the ticket counter remains empty.
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