A Letter to the Elvis Impersonator Who Stole My In-Flight Muffin


Dear Sir and or Madam,

Recently…whilst on a pleasant trans-Atlantic scurry flight to the fruit fields of Malaysia, I had the decided displeasure of making your rancid acquaintance. I remember when you first boarded… wandering in, garishly clad in your overwrought jumpsuit splayed by an abundance of sequin misuse…your tasteless sideburns and the perverse familiarity of cheap Scotch, unwashed boxers. You were severe and protracted yet strangely pithy and blunted and I do admit I felt a certain tinge of pity for you and what has become of your vanity…sodden from the futility of your apparent misplaced futility of your vocational endeavors.


Regrettably, the unavoidability of bleak fate and assigned seats would soon swathe me into quite the unfortunate reality that you and I would soon be sharing an armrest and undoubtedly, a bit of tattered banter.


I watched in abject horror as you began the ceremonial enterprise of compression and constriction of cramming as you jostled your grossly distended hind end between the limitations of modern aviatory comfort…directly onto the quivering seat below. These spastic attempts had scarcely come to a tactless, non-diplomatic conclusion when the nonsensical prattle began. Suddenly and quite unpreparedly, I was immersed in the demoralization of America through the modernization of the baked potato and the advent of short wave radio frequency use in the control of the suburban ferret population. I listened patiently as you expounded in great detail your life at sea with the Norwegian Scone Polishing Brigade and how you will never forget the day the Captain took you under his wing and taught you the finer art of chum scrubbing.


I agreed whole heartedly with you and your feelings about the generation of today and their capitulative loss of interest in beach party movies and their overall lack of respect for eating hard boiled eggs in the hot tub with Hawaiian stewardesses. Not once did I bat an eye, nay did I flinch when you vehemently disavowed the pushy nature of large women in ill fitting stretch tops with vivid patterns.


Look, I even let you give me that pinky toe massage and I helped you retrieve your duffle bag from the overhead compartment so you could awe me with your endless array of glossy photographs of you in Karate poses. I zipped up your jump suit when you returned from the lavatory and I made absolutely no mention of the fact that you returned smelling like peanut butter and stale Aqua Velvet. I helped you decipher the map you drew last night in that run down Tiki Bar and Auto Salvage Yard over there on Fifth and Gleason…the one leading the way to the wild scootch hunt path and resultant treasure.


Later that evening when the cabin lights were temporarily disabled due to jarring turbulence, I lent you my Itty Bitty Book Light so you could catch up on all the latest Hollywood gossip and I held your rhinestone glasses whilst you vomited into the portable vomit receptacle found in the seat pocket in front of you. I offered to watch your dog, Cattlewig, the next time you were called upon to serve God and the greater good of the country…which is often, apparently.

All these things I did for you and your repugnant strangeness…and I did so without once complaining or flagging down a flight attendant to relocate my seatery to a less “complicated” area of the craft. All these intrusive little sacrifices I made for you and you chose to repay me by snatching my in-flight blueberry muffin the minute I turned my head. I know it was you. There is no sense in your continued denial. Despite these protests and weak attempts to mask the gentle wafting aroma of fresh blueberry goodness of your guilt with the moldy shrimp you found in your pocket, dry Vermouth and clumsy winks and nods…I know it was you.

I know it was you and I hope you rot in hell.

Respectfully,
Gabriella Garofalo


Somewhere in the depths of societal discontent and finger paintings for the fridge we find Gabriella Garofalo. She’s no Navan Johnson, but her sense of entrepreneurship remains largely intact and her number wholly unlisted.



Despite recent issues with rusty hinges and forlorn neighborhood watch people, she is currently working on her second Masters degree in Clinical Toxicology. Upon completion, it is likely she will disappear into the depths of the Congo where she will make valid yet vain attempts to introduce the natives to the wonders of solar cooking and the Tupperware air tight food preservation system. Likely, yet doubtful. Meanwhile, she shills away the hours with clever ruminations of life and the molecular sorts it comprises and the relentless quest for the perfect pair of socks. Should you find that these matters disturb or perplex you and you wish to go into greater detail and discover the tribulations that lie within you, please feel free to send her some sort of rant at: chickenofdoompress@gmail.com.