Matt Hate Mott

I've got to get something off my chest that has been bothering me for the longest time:

Honestly, what the fuck is the deal with tomato juice on airplanes?

I'm telling you, every single time I travel on an airplane, some D-bag next to me has to order the goddamn tomato juice. Why?! I have no idea. Never before in the short 23 years of my earthly existence have I ever once seen a fellow human being order tomato juice anywhere except in a plane. At the local cafe? No. At the Italian place on the corner? Never. Over at the organic smoothie place? Not once. In the refrigerator at home? Fuck you.

Only on planes.

So what's the appeal? Who really wants to slug watered down marinara sauce mid-flight? Come on! I'm sure it's great for your breath and works wonders on your teeth. Oh, and how can I forget, it must be marvelous to imbibe amidst turbulence! I mean, I'm having trouble enough slurping down those little "pull back the tin lid" water thimbles and you're going for the friggin' tomato juice! Granted, I like to occasionally get a faux-glass of red wine on the plane... but that relaxes me. There's a physical/emotional side effect! It gets you drunk, biotch! Tomato juice? Full of vitamin C and filth.

Maybe it's more subtle than I imagine. Maybe other people have already realized this disturbing state of affairs, and know that the only time they can get their beloved tomato juice is on plane rides. Maybe they see other people order the tomato juice and think to themselves "high stain potential, nauseating stench, and ghastly gross glass residue (similar to how milk leaves its little calcium slug trail after you drink it from a transparent receptacle, tomato juice leaves its Trail of Tears behind as well; except it looks like... don't make me write this. Use your colorful imagination and a biology textbook). SIGN ME UP!"

Oh god, I'm getting a visual: the crimson morass interspersed with flecks of unnameable "herbs" and "natural flavors" snaking its venomous path to the awaiting ignoramus's lips, but alas, his/her appetite for the vile fluid is insatiable (!) as he/she dips the container at too severe an angle, causing the murderous magma to overflow onto the dolt's upper lip, giving them a most dreaded and revolting juice-stache (a la The Joker). The horror! THE HORROR! DAMN YOU MOTT'S!

Perhaps I am making too much of a fuss about this. Maybe there are legions of TJ lovers out there, who, hidden from public view and discourse, hoard gallons of the stuff in their garage ice-boxes, and sneak out when the kids are asleep to partake in their ritual all-night bingers. The thought horrifies me.

I hope I can sleep tonight,
Matt

ps. I haven't had a rant post in a while. It feels good.