Well folks, looks like we got our first sms from Foo here. Popped into me phone around… umm.. 5.30 pm or so today? Here it is word for word. “Touched down at 6, customs queue for 3 bloody hours.. Rested, walked around the city, stopped for groceries, lazing now.. Love the girls & weather here (smiley face)“.
Well whoop de doo! All I got from that sms was GIRLS. girls, girls, girls. I reckon the water is somewhat different over there. And as most most of you might know, coming out of the airport into customs is a blur after 8 hours of flight. I always thought that notion of the immigration officers asking you questions to verify that you’re not a terrorist is quite absurd for flights over 5 hours in a bloody MAS plane. MATE! I spent 8 hours in a tiny seat to get here and you’re asking if I have a fruits or vegetables to declare? I’d be so tired you can ask me anything and I won’t be able to lie.
I always thought that f*cking with them would be fun, pre 9/11 of course.
“So sir, are you here for business of pleasure?”
“A little from column A and a little from column B!”
“Huh? Sir? Business or pleasure?”
“Depends, this a democracy or do I have to quote my Marx and Lenin?”
“Right sir, could you just hold for a moment?” *presses silent alarm
Something like that I guess.
