In RDU, run on to the last flight out of town, get a seat between two people: an old fat woman that is way to talkative on my right and a young "I can prove how cool I am" prick on my left.
First thing that happens is the flight attendant walks over and hands me a rum and coke and thanks me for all I do. WTF? I later figured out that she thought I was TSA.
Then, the fat lady asks me if I'm a pilot. I say yes, staring at the rum and coke in disbelief. "Do you know what a Cessna 210 is?" I nod my head. "Is it a good ariplane?" I look up from my rum and coke and say something like 'I guess so.' Then, out of no where and very matter of factly she blurts out; "My husband died in one of those."
Now, I'm trying to decide which is more amusing, getting a free alocoholic drink from the FA or having some old fat lady talk my ear off about how her husband died.
Mean while, mister cooler than thou keeps leaning over well into my personal space and whispering "kill me now." At this point I was more than happy to help him, I just didn't have anything sharper than my wings.
So I shove the rum and coke over to the "cool guy" and pretend to rest my eyes. Mrs. fat ain't gettin that I just flew 8 hours a day for the last 5 days and all I want to do is rest on my way home. Neither does the FA.
Magically, another rum and coke appears in front of me. By now, cool guy gets it. I can't drink it. So he's begging me for the drink, which I was more than happy to pawn off. Maybe a little alcohol will put this guy to sleep. Of course, any sign of life I show is a signal to Mrs. Fat that it is time to talk. She starts asking me why engines quit and what does it mean if the aircraft is found upside down.
Let me tell you, I've never had a wierder dead head leg than that. Thank God it was only an hour.