10 Things I’d Rather Do Than Be At The Boston Logan International Airport

1. Live on CoRo all four years. I’d rather make the commute from exile every damn day than have to walk the marathon from the parking garage to the check-in desk even once. 
2. Talk to Molly’s owner for longer than .2 seconds. I’d give that man my instagram handle- hell, I’ll even follow Molly’s fan page if it means I don’t have to do that panic-stricken, shoes-off shuffle at the TSA bins.
3. Use a Walsh Rat as a loofah. I mean that sincerely. Little whiskers and all. 
4. Suck Fr. Leahy’s hairy little man toes. We can all agree they’re probably, like, extra gross, right? 
5. Tag @bccarrollschool in my instagram bio. #CSOM 
6. Start my mornings by reading The Heights in its new, entirely digital format!
7. Live in a forced triple in Duchesne. I know they don’t have those. I don’t care.
8. Vacuum the quad with one of those skinny little featherweight things that actually just blows the dirt around.
9. Close my fingers in a car door. 
10. Give my SSN to a scam caller.

And here’s why:

In a city like Boston, there’s a lot to love: great sightseeing, beautiful parks, scenic views, and incredible food. It’s just a shame that its airport is so close to downtown, because that shithole is the biggest dumpster fire on God’s green earth. 

Your misery begins when you arrive and are forced to walk an entire Boston Marathon from the parking garage to the check-in desk. After that you will contract Coronavirus in a crowded elevator full of maskless passengers breathing with their mouths only. You will get stiff-armed out of the way by an overweight Irishman while his little leprechaun son razor-scooters over your ankle with his out-of-control roller bag. You must grin and bear this. 

It would be positively naive of you to believe that the worst part is over. At Boston Logan International Airport, the misery never ends. After getting verbally abused by the check-in staff, it’s time to greet your besties: TSA. Sure, they may make you feel like a fool, rushing frantically to rip your shoes off and plunk your electronics into bins, but you still have to try and make hurried, horrific small talk. Also, they hate you. After all of this anxiety, it’s time for a nervous shit in a mid-century toilet bowl. Your seat is ripped, the nearest outlet is a Newton-campus away, and the food selection is worse than Mac on a Saturday night. The airport should be renamed William P. Leahy, S.J. International Airport because it takes your money and fucks you over. Finally your flight is almost here, it’s time to escape. Sike, flights delayed an hour, fuck you! 

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