Hold up. First thing I wonder when I work Vegas is how many jack and cokes I'll sell and how many rose boobie tattoos I might see. The count is UP THERE. Las Vegas is a magical route. It's an escape from working on an airplane actually...it's like I'm working on a city bus packed with a collective Maury Povich audience. It's a riot. Shit always happens.
So back to the story, the flight attendant says bimbo in 23D rings her call button. She wearily approaches wondering if she's maybe popped an implant when fat-tard in front of her reclined his seat...or does she want another double vodka cran? Jack and coke (diet of course)?
No, chick wants a pillow. We don't have that lice spreading luxury anymore lady. She's got two on her chest but she's being high maintenance and doesn't want to lay that way. Flight attendant apologizes for the inconvenience and offers to help retrieve her hot pink, leopard print furry carry-on in hopes she may have a sweater in there to transform into what she wants. Barbie huffs and refuses. Flight attendant leaves. Looks back. Sees her rifling through the bag she didn't want. Lady seems to find what she's looking for.....wait for it.... she pulls out a ginormous brassiere. She literally chooses her underwear to form into a pillow, not a sweater, t-shirt, scarf, but a bra. Guess it's not surprising that this one would actually bring clothing materials to Las Vegas but c'mon. She lays down her tray table, folds the EE-sized fushia bra and conks the fuck out. No shame. Later, while doing the second beverage service, flight attendant sees that she's shifted positions and also the purpose of the braIt's now an eye-mask.
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