The Black Duffle

As I arrived at the airport on Saturday night, in un-characteristic punctuality, I struck up a conversation with the ticket agent. In Spanish no less. The good man hooked me up with good seats and I was on my way. We both agreed that I shouldn't check The Black Duffle, in order to avoid the hassles that go along with all of that. Little did I know how that one, seemingly minor decision would change my life. The Black Duffle was no problem as I boarded the plane and got off in Las Vegas (only to lose $6 on the slots). However, when I saw what we were flying in to Salt Lake, I wished the good Spanish man would have suggested otherwise. The Black Duffle didn't fit anywhere in the plane, especially with the psycho next to me. So, the stewardess made me check it. In a not-so-kind manner she ripped The Black Duffle from my hand and assured me that I would get it as soon as we exited the plane. Not so. I got off of the plane and it seemed that everyone had there luggage excepting me. The Black Duffle was no where to be found. And the custodian-turned-baggage clerk was no help at all. In his broken English he told me that there was nothing he could do and that I should call the next day, not realizing that I would be in a different state. I got a call early morning, disturbing my much needed sleep, saying that they had the Black Duffle and would gladly send it to Idaho Falls at 2pm. Two O-clock came and went and The Black Duffle was no where in sight. We were told to call back to Salt Lake, they could do nothing. Well, the much anticipated call came later in the evening informing me that The Black Duffle had indeed arrived. We made the trip to the airport and I was once again re-united with The Black Duffle and all of her contents. Never again will I trust the stewardess named Jeannie.