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The Bastard decided he had had enough with the advertisements (which often took a looooong time to load) and some other niggling annoyances with his blog host. As such he has MOVED THE FUCK ON. As always, you can find the Bastard at thebastardtraveler.com (or simply bastardtraveler.com for you keystroke-counters). Don’t worry – all the posts and comments have been perfectly preserved for your enjoyment!

FUCKING CLICK HERE TO GO THERE NOW, JACKASS!

The Bastard graciously thanks the folks at Baywords and wishes them luck in their new blog platform.

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When you travel as much at as the Bastard, you can get a bit fuzzy on what room you’re staying in, especially if you’re at the same hotel repeatedly &/or under the influence of tequila shooters, peyote buttons, comic books and meth. Most hotels give you a stupid fucking paper folder for your key with lots of promotional crap in it about how great the chain is or how you want to join their rewards program, with a tiny box where your room number is written. I used to tear this off the folder and put it in my wallet until one time it got dislodged from my wallet on a raucous night out in Dallas where I wound up passed out in the stairwell clad only in my jockstrap. The day after that I happened to notice a box of sharpies in my workplace with no one guarding them and just moments after I ganked a handful, a giant white penis-shaped lightbulb became erect over my head.

In my imagination. From that day forward the Bastard always kept a sharpie in his carry-on bag in an easily accessible pocket. When the Bastard checks in, he writes the room number on the card-key, thus ensuring that unless the key is entirely lost he has left himself a trail of breadcrumbs back to his bed. But what about the key? Don’t the hotels want them back? The bastard guesses that they do but tough shit. The Bastard recycles the keys when he gets home because he is paranoid that the hotel has installed some sort of insidious RFID chip in the key to track his every movement and thought.

Lesson: Confuckius say simple answer hard to find but easy to do. Also that sharpie good for writing dirty Confuckious quotes on bathroom wall like “Man with hand in pocket feel cocky all day.”

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The Bastard is not a patient fellow. He will utilize any means at his discretion to cut ahead of you in line. Examples:

1. You’ve seen the so called “Status Access” Security lines at many large airports where passengers with high airline status levels can utilize a much shorter line to access TSA screening? Well, through careful observation and testing, the Bastard has learned that the confluence of several factors will often afford non-status passengers the ability to access this line. Most of these techniques require or will be much assisted by looking like a “pro” traveler, which means showered, shaved, roller bag & laptop bag & professional attire:
   1. If you are flying with a status passenger, stick with them, the airline will let you through.
   2. Often these lines are completely unmanned. Enter at will.
   3. For minimal queue: Look for Airline Personnel that are bored, sleepy or otherwise inattentive. Arrange your boarding pass in your hand to ensure that it can be identified as a boarding pass but that your thumb obscures the area of the pass where status is shown. Look at the passes of legit passengers to identify this area. Adapt a harried visage and a quick step and wave the obscured boarding pass at the lazy Airline Personnel, saying “Thank You!” They will let you through rather than stop a potentially late status flier.
   4. For queues: Make yourself invisible. Using a combination of the jedi mind-trick and the way of the ninja, meld yourself to the person in front of you in line, as if you are a single passenger. His or her buttcheeks are your buttcheeks. What is the sound of one hand clapping? Shadow your host passenger on the opposite side from the Airline Personnel and use your host as a block. Do not acknowledge the Airline Personnel if at all possible. When approaching, focus your attention on something in your bag and quietly rifle through as if the Airline Personnel simply does not exist in your reality. Avoid engagement at all costs and if they insist, mumble that “we’re travelling together” and nod at your host. Read the rest of this entry »

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I’ve discussed tipping at great length with friends of many nationalities, and I have a few words for you fuckfaces out there who don’t tip, ever, or always leave a shitty tip.

See, you fuck up the whole system. Tipping should be a glowing example of a capitalistic pay-for-performance system, but you non- and shit- tippers have turned it into more of a profiling system for the foodservice industry.

See, they’re no dummies. They take one look at you when you walk in the door and they size up within 5 seconds whether you’re going to tip well. It’s your demeanor, the state of repair of your shoes, the seasonality of your clothes, your hair and makeup, your umbrella, your nationality, ethnic or religious persuasion – everything. Read the rest of this entry »

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Dear Taxi Drivers;

You know me. I’m the person who, at pickup, leans in and asks “do you take credit cards?” even though in many cities it’s THE LAW that you accept credit cards. You almost always reply “yes”. Then, when I get a few miles from my destination, you start with some story about how you just remembered that the card reader isn’t working, or that you only accept Bank of Buttfuck cards or that your receipt printer is out of ink or that the swipe mechanism is jammed with a used condom.

This letter is to let you know that I know you are completely full of shit. The reason I ask BEFORE I get in the car is because I WILL be paying with a credit card. Feel free to spin whatever tale you wish and I will simply sit in the back seat silently until we reach our destination. It will be as if I have gone deaf in the span of our ride together because I will not respond to these tall tales in any way. I will look out the window or busy myself on my laptop or Blackberry, but I will not respond.

When we reach our destination, I will exit the taxi with my belongings and will hand my card through the window despite your tale of credit card woe. When you reiterate why it will only be with tremendous difficulty that you may accept my credit card I will simply respond “I asked when you picked me up and I have no cash. You must accept this card as payment or not get paid.” This is a lie, admittedly. I surely have in excess of two hundred one-dollar bills rolled up in a rubber-band in my pocket for the titty-bar. However, it is because of all the tall tales that taxi drivers have told before you that I always, ALWAYS pay by credit card. Every second of resistance that you now offer will be ticking percentages off your tip. The more you resist, the less tip you will get. Ho! Did you hear that? That’s your tip dropping by 5%! There it is again!

Which is ironic and short-sighted of you. You resist the card because you do not want to make the payment associated with the transaction, but the more you resist, the less you will be paid. Trust me when I say that your net gain will be higher if you do not resist my card. I am a good tipper when I do not have to listen to your bullshit.

Love,

The Bastard Traveler

Lesson: Ask before you get in the taxi and NEVER believe the stories about their card reader. You did your due diligence when you entered the cab and you have the right to refuse payment if they refuse your card. Do not engage them until you have reached your destination and you have the upper hand.

See Also: Woman Says NY Cabbie Punched Her In The Face Because She Wanted Pay With A Credit Card

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We all know by now that the TSA screening process is a complete joke but apparently we need to go through it anyway to get from point A to point B on an airplane in the USA. Here’s a method to select the best line for the metal detector at that critical moment when the line diverges. If you disagree or think you know better, leave a fucking comment, smart guy.

From the moment you join the line for security, you should be carefully sizing up every passenger ahead of you in line according to the classifications below. You are not concerned about the passengers behind you – their only role is to smell your flatus.

• Airline Staff or Airport Employees = -1 – look for heavily worn roller bags and clothes with airline or official insignia.
• Business People and Road Warriors = 0 – they can be identified by blazers, pantsuits, worn laptop bags, and an air of boredom when going through security. They’ve been here before.
• The Wealthy = +1 – they can be identified by their upscale baggage & clothes (fur/ascots), and their air of superiority and disdain for their fellow passengers and the security checkpoint.
• Leisure Travelers =+2 – look for their air of excitement and comfortable, loose-fitting (or very tight-fitting) clothes. To them, security is one more exciting step on their way to some exciting far-away land like Orlando or Phoenix, AZ. If they appear bored, treat them as Business People (0).
• Kids under 20 = +3 – look for “Juicy Couture,” “Sean John,” “Abercrombie,” and repellently vibrant skin. If they appear extremely bored they may be a model and treat them as Business People (0)
• The Elderly = +3 – look for white hair and a shuffling gait.
• Families with multiple small children = # of passengers +5 – you can’t miss these because a cloud of chaos surrounds them. Generally mom is shouting to the rest of the clan that they need to do this and that so you shouldn’t have any problem spotting them.
• The Clueless/Insane = +5 – these can be identified by their looking around in bewilderment, an expression of fear and fascination playing across their slackened faces. “What is this? An Air – port?”

When the lines diverge for the metal detector, the line with the smallest number is the line you should choose.

These scores have been scientifically tabulated by measuring the awareness of each class of passenger to the TSA screening process and the likelihood that they will need multiple passes at the wand or will have their bag delayed. Since Airline Personnel and Business people are most concerned on getting through as quickly as possible, lines with a high density of these classes will move fastest. Since the Wealthy prefer to have things done for them they will enjoy having TSA tell them to empty their pockets, remove their gem-encrusted jewelry, and place their Fabergé eggs on the conveyor. Leisure Travelers and Kids are generally so excited by the wonderment of the airport that they always forget at least one thing – be it shoes, a belt, or the ziplock bag. The Elderly move so, so very slowly and are generally confused by the inexplicable TSA requirements. Families and the Clueless are the most important individuals to avoid in every step of travel. They bring a zone of chaos with them, enveloping everything approximately 10 feet from wherever they are standing. Within this zone, expect to lose your ticket or ID, trip over your shoelace, accidentally shit yourself, realize that you are wearing your jockstrap on the outside, or have your pants fall down because you forgot to replace your belt after security. Avoid this zone at all costs.

Lesson: All travelers can and should be classified and mathematically rated for the ease of YOUR travel.

See Also: The Bastard WILL Cut the Queue

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Everyone says Facebook is the shit when it’s not broadcasting the crap you buy to everyone else. I don’t know why you’d want to be friends with a dick like me but here you go.

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A reader shares this tale that fills the Bastard with disgust and hatred:

When I got to the airport, there was nobody in the security line. I could hardly believe it. I breezed through security in less than a minute. As I walked through the airport to my gate, I happened to walk past the one hour earlier Philadelphia flight’s gate, just after the final boarding call. I inquired about the availability of seats, and there were still plenty. So, I hopped on and the plane. The FA had given me a window seat (I go crazy in anything but the aisle), but the last 5-7 rows of the plane were close to empty so I just found an empty row and hunkered down. When I got off the plane, I called the parking shuttle and they were outside waiting when I walked out of the terminal. In the end, I was home at least an hour early.

The Bastard hates you. And also suggests you skip the shuttle and try an airport valet service instead. Thanks to The Knee Defender for his story. Fucking dick.

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The Bastard Traveler knows what a shitty experience traveling can be, and how most of us would sell our grandmother for a 1st class seat for a NAT-JFK flight. He knows that nearly every trip, even the good ones, have a nugget of misery and humiliation that is begging to be shared. Tell the Bastard about it. You can email the Bastard at thebastardtraveler.20.tpk AT xoxy.net or submit your story in the comments below.

And by the way, for you newbies, the AT above isn’t actually “AT” but the @ sign. Get it? I doubt it.

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The Bastard Traveler was on his way home and all he could hear was trhe hacking and whooping and sneezing of the other passengers around him, and he didn’t like it. Not one bit. No one likes a sick Bastard. When the beverage cart came he asked for orange juice. The flight attendant must have felt the Bastard’s paranoid vibe becuase she brought not one, but TWO orange juices. How considerate of her. A ray of sunshine in the bleak, misearble world of coach airline travel.

So the Bastard took his sweet time drinking his orange juice, flipping through some music and trying to drown out the death rattles of those around him. When the beverage cart came back, it lightly clipped his knee in just such a way that the reflex was activated and WHAM! the knee came up to the tray, sending the OJ onto the Bastard Traveler.

It was the nearly full 2nd cup and now it was running down my shirt and was literally making its way down all the nooks and crannies of my clothes to my crotch and my ass. I was taking an assbath in orange juice and was utterly powerless. I then activated the call button, something I rarely do.

The nice lady came and when she saw me, she responded “Ohh, that’s always a bummer. I’ll get you some towels.” She brought me a big bundle of towels and I fruitlessly tried to blot up the OJ that hadn’t yet pooled around my scrotum. How fucking humiliating and miserable. The Bastard Traveler was really motherfucking pissed.

When I got home a few hours later and finally stripped down, my underwear and shirt-tails were still wet.

Lesson: Don’t get the second beverage.