So, I went off to visit civilization for a week. It was fucking awesome. Leaving Toronto on Lufthansa was a pleasant, professional experience. Announcements were correctly done in five languages and the flight, while crowded with moronic cakers and undoubtedly traumatized Europeans desperately fleeing back to tolerable space and people, did exactly as on the tin. In a form of transaction inconceivable to Canadians, the service listed was provided without shortcuts and with an eye to best practice. Even more unreal was the flight onwards from Germany. Quality? Decency? Passengers who can comprehend such complex notions as shutting the fuck up, presenting your passport without hearing some version of ‘tee-hee I’m Canadian’ and waiting patiently to land? Sign me the fuck up, son!
Sadly, my stay in a decent and civilized place where pedestrians aren’t considered icky and where food is seen as a perfectable art rather than a way to mine money from morons came to an end. My connection to Germany was safe because Caker Airways had nothing to do with it. I foolishly made the assumption that my connecting flight to Toronto would also be handled with the staid efficiency of the German people and, after several cringeworthy iterations of cakers explaining their trips to uninterested border police from the people in front of me I was at the gate.
And there I saw a portal to madness.
There it was, waiting for its cargo of high-school children wielding their caker-papers and boarding passes as if they were deeds to the universe. I overhear the phrase “gotta get my Timmies” at the gate and consider applying for refugee status. Please, Europe, I say to myself. Take me. I’ll learn the language; I’ll mop floors or do dishes or clean streets if only you’d save me from these wretched jingling fuckmonkeys! I won’t even ask you to accomodate some primitive religious beliefs!
Naturally, Caker Airways demonstrates an immediate lack of any kind of foresight by allowing idiots to pile in front of the departure gate without any sort of organizing principle. They have something called “zones” – on Lufthansa, your “zone” is defined by your seat assignment and they ask you to line up in accordance with your zone. This keeps lines clear and allows normal people (i.e.: not cakers, who act without regard for anyone or anything around them ) to navigate without confusion. The Caker Airways equivalent is to have zones but not to tell anyone what they mean or what one should do with this information. Absolute genius, I know.
The aneurysm of cakers clotting the gate is finally cleared by the brute-force who-gives-a-shit method, a Canadian staple. Semi-literate caker high-schoolers and hockey squires wrestle at the gate with other cakers as Europeans and more evolved sorts stay back from the fray. The whole thing looks and feels like a hockeymans game, which is probably because the only thing these rockheads understand instinctively is ramming into people and swinging whatever they have in hand about. In this carnival of venereal disease we finally get seated and strapped in.
And here comes a whole new avalanche of shit.
First off, we have a cabin crew that can’t read. We know this because they forget to mention the emergency procedure for cabin depressurization during the safety primer. Don’t you worry though – while Caker Airways can’t be bothered with properly advising passengers on how to survive a malfunctioning aluminium tube screaming through the air, they did make sure to ask us to applaud for the Peterborough Quacks Junior-Something Hockeymans team for “showcasing Canadian sportsmanship and talent abroad”.
I’m not joking. They asked us to applaud a minor-league hockey team named the Quacks but they couldn’t be arsed to read the safety card. My growing fear of looming death was compounded by a discovery over the British Isles that the overhead reading lights wouldn’t turn off. Why would anyone inspect a plane for issues like that before it takes off into the sky, right? Gotta make sure we get the hockeymans’ nod in but fuck if we can understand and troubleshoot a fucking light bulb before screaming into the sky. The lights are connected to the “entertainment” (which features ads at every possible corner, pressable options that haven’t been available ever in my history of flying Caker Airways, and an unsubtle display of Canadiana-through-film that I’ve never seen noted or advertised outside of a plane), so fuck you that’s out too. Not like you missed much save for a faceful of caker nonsense and half-baked humor long past its best-before date.
Nothing is more reassuring that having the crew fail to note a fault before takeoff and following up with failing to read the safety pamphlet. Attempts to fix the fault with the “turn-off-and-on-again” technique fail and keenly demonstrate the acumen and preparedness of the airline. Recall that this is at 33000 feet in the air somewhere over the Atlantic for extra laughs. An endless parade of hockey squires and high-schools laugh and bark and squeal and wander about the plane as the crew tries and fails to control them. That’s also a good sign, right? Crowd control on a tube filled with pressurized recycled farts is for chumps. Nothing could go wrong with this!
Did I mention that the only crew member who spoke German on the flight wasn’t fluent and couldn’t speak to the Germans behind us? Sheepishly asking if Germans flying from Frankfurt speak English because the designated German can’t handle their accent is a comsummate signal of professionalism. If a caker was misunderstood and ask to speak another language they’d flip; apparently linguistic courtesy only extends to two languages in Canada.
Somewhat surprisingly we land in Toronto. Our connection on Caker Airways was delayed an hour because reasons and we navigated Canada’s desperate attempt to croupier-or-tax whatever tolerable food and alcohol you might have brought back (i.e.: customs) while dodging flailing children and mentally delayed cakers. After that it was an unclear mystery-walk to the connecting gate. Just in case we wanted to go quickly the hockey squires opted to demonstrate their Canadian sportsmanship and talents by walking backwards on the moving walks. Ever walk on a treadmill really slowly, children? That’s roughly equivalent to what you’re being amused by except on a treadmill you aren’t dodging people trying to get by. You sure do represent Canada, you worthless cretins, but I don’t think you understand how damning that is.
Special thanks to the caker-child sitting on the handrail with her feet out on the moving walk. When I barked at you to “do something useful for a change and get the fuck out of my way” and you sulked your way to the “standing” side of the moving walk as I was trying to lug overpriced dinner and a suitcase back to the gate, I forgot to mention that you should also never leave Canada again if your feeble mind can’t handle the prospect that people trying to move quickly might want unobstructed access to the means by which people move quickly. Caker Airways would be wise to similarly wise-up but frankly with the prices Other Russia’s sadsack Aeroflot also-ran charges and service that wouldn’t look out of place in a comedy routine I know it’s a more honest representation of Canada (and thus a warning to civilized peoples) than anything else a would-be tourist will see here.