Wait, the guy who wrote ìBattlefield Earthî did start Scientology. Wow, thatís weird. All of this makes a lot more sense now.

The Scientologists have never hassled me before, but thatís probably because itís painfully obvious that I have no money. My $10 hoodie sweatshirt from Target and tattered jeans are a dead giveaway. However, I am close to being debt-free, and I think they can smell it. Lately, whenever I pass L. Ron Hubbardís nerd patrol, their eyes get less beady and their ties stick out erect, like the Dilbert comic strip character.

Scientologyís followers donít frighten me, hence why Iím mocking them, but the Scientology headquarters itself does. The building is a giant castle in the middle of a normal neighborhood. Its exterior walls are painted different shades of light blue, likely because itís considered a calming color. In this case, it just looks creepy. The building also has large windows everywhere, similar to the kind you see in old factory buildings. It gives the appearance that a monster lurks inside, and that if the windows were a little less murky, perhaps youíd see it staring back out at you.

The parking lot for the Scientology headquarters is comically large. No matter what day of the week or time of day it is, there are always roughly 400 empty parking spaces available. It makes me a little bitter when Iím driving around in circles for 10 minutes trying to find a spot near my apartment. What a waste. If the Scientologists gave people in the neighborhood free parking spaces, we might stop throwing our garbage and discarded furniture into their lot.

I smashed an empty Pabst Blue Ribbon bottle in their parking lot once. It was pretty awesome. I felt very clear afterwards, as if the pain from millions of years of traumatic incidents, ethical transgressions, and bad decisions were erased from my memory.

Perhaps Scientology has helped me find a way to enlightenment after all. Or maybe Iím just the reincarnation of their arch enemy Xenu, and my entire life purpose is to dirty the parking lot of their headquarters. I am, after all, quite fascinated by psychology, drugs, and very loud childbirths.

With all due respect to the late Dr. King, who the hell takes off MLK Day? When was the last time you heard someone say, “Hey, it’s a three-day MLK weekend! Let’s pack up our crap and go campin’!” I’ve certainly never said that phrase in my life. Have you, reader? I rest my case.

If the studio is forcing me to take Monday off with no pay, then you better believe I’m going to get drunk on Sunday. What else am I supposed to do? Nobody has MLK Day off except government workers and the douchebags at my office. My choices are to get drunk at home or go see a movie with the elderly man who delivers my mail.

The worst part is that I can’t even enjoy myself while I’m drinking on a Sunday. It just feels wrong. I have a very good sense of when I shouldn’t be drinking, and my radar was sounding the warning sirens when I cracked open a bottle of Pabst today.

The last time that internal alarm went off was in college. The first party my roommates and I ever threw was really lame, and nobody showed up. We planned to watch a rugby match the next morning at 9am, and since we had so much beer leftover in the keg, we transferred it to four plastic milk jugs, loaded them into the back of the car, and drove to the field to drink while we watched the game.

Drinking in that situation was not only horribly disgusting, it also felt incredibly pathetic, because it was 9am in the freaking morning. It was like punching a clown, or doing my taxes in July. It didn’t fit.

You’d think drinking on MLK Day doesn’t fit because it tarnishes the image of Dr. King and everything he accomplished, but it was actually just because it was a Sunday. I tarnish the image of myself and others so often that it doesn’t really register anymore unless it’s on a work night.

So here I am, tipsy on a Sunday evening, writing a humor column. The Patriots have beaten the Chargers, the Overrated Turds have beaten the Seahawks, and I have avoided seeing “Stomp the Yard” with my mail carrier. All is well.

The bartender in the airport was almost as tense as the people being frisked. She had been working 12 hours a day for the past two weeks, covering everyone’s shifts during the holidays. Or at least that’s what she claimed. It could have just been a ruse to get bigger tips. If it was, it worked on me. She played the part well. In the hour I was there – from 8:30 to 9:30pm – she could barely remember anything. Had I paid? What drink had I ordered 30 seconds earlier? Was I interested in getting another beer during last call, despite the fact that my current one was nearly full and my plane was boarding in 15 minutes?

The answer to those questions, respectively, were yes, Leinie’s Honey Weiss, and hell yes. I would’ve lied and told her I already paid, but I was afraid airport security would find out and confiscate my liver.

But the real treat was the flight itself. First-class upgrades were only $60, and since my plane was arriving late and I had to work in the morning, it was a good way to get some sleep. I had never flown first-class before, and it was everything I dreamed it would be. My seat was leather, my legroom was adequate, and the flight attendants tended to me as if the losers in coach were just annoyances. Which they were, of course.

“Excuse me, miss? That peasant man in the coach section is snoring too loudly. Could you lock him in the toilet until we land? Thank you.”

The ill-bred commoners in coach were given a cold, hard grilled cheese sandwich to eat, while I received a warm turkey and cheese sandwich, a macaroni salad of some sort, and a bag of those thick potato chips – the ones no one likes but everyone knows are fancy. After my meal, I was offered a brownie for dessert. They didn’t ask and then get the brownie for me, they presented the brownie to me first, as if my decision required an inspection.

I ran back to the coach class with my brownie, spitting large mouthfuls of it at the lesser passengers while screaming crude obscenities to show them how important I was, and how depressed they should be that they weren’t me. “I’m better than you!” I screamed. “Your section of the plane smells like farts! Your dinner is a stale grilled cheese sandwich and one-fourth of a can of Diet Coke! Go back to your trailers and spawn more uncouth welfare children, you hillbillies!”

Then the stewardesses escorted me back to my seat and fellated me until I fell asleep. I dreamt of unicorns, newborn puppies, and Ryan Seacrest’s hair. When I awoke, the stewardesses had covered me in a blanket made from Jesus Christ’s hair. After the plane landed, we got to cherry pick items from the coach passengers’ luggage.

Few airlines offer a cheap first-class upgrade, and when you find one you should spring for it. I’m glad I made the most of my first and probably last first-class flight. Even if I never get to do it again, I’ll still have my memories, and all the medication I stole from other people’s luggage.