Flight 93
12 September 2005If you're new here, you may want to subscribe to my RSS feed. Thanks for visiting!
I was initially puzzled, then shocked and ultimately disgusted at what a non event the 4th anniversary of September 11th was as it relates to television. Between the NFL season kickoff and the launch of the latest wave of idiot sitcoms for the new fall season, the major networks just didnt seem to have any time left over to devote to some memorial programming that relived that beautiful morning four short years ago when Islamofascists launched wave after wave of terror and crashed jet after jet (filled to the brim with fuel) into one American institution after another. The little squads of terror assholes armed with pen knives and box cutters had the plane takeover routine down pat: jump up in unison from their 1st class seats when the jet reached altitude, immediately slash the throat of the weakest and easiest passenger or female flight attendant, throw the body down in coach class as a warning to the other passengers, storm the cabin, overwhelm and kill the pilot and co-pilot, seize control of the cabin and get on the intercom and tell the shaken confused passengers to calm down, they had a bomb and just relax as this was a classical Arafat-inspired highjacking and they were returning to the airport to land, state their demands and hold the passengers as hostages. Airline officials were taught to cooperate with highjackers back in those days and flight attendants; the remaining authority figures not already murdered, urged passengers to do just thatsit down and relax; these murderers were simply going to ransom them for demands of some type or another and theyd all soon be free.
Flight 93 out of Newark was delayed at takeoff putting this group of islamofacists slightly behind schedule. By the time Flight 93 reached 30,000 feet the other three planes had crashed into the Twin Towers and the Pentagon. The Jordanian and two Saudis on Flight 93 put on their little red headbands and leapt to their feet in 1st class. The deal was on. They grabbed some hapless old man in first class and slashed his throat: their letter of instruction from the terror masters in Afghanistan insisted box cutters be extra sharp so when they butchered the animal the death would be quick and without struggle. They stormed the cockpit and killed the captain and co-captain who had just gotten word of the Twin Tower/Pentagon murders. The last message the pilot sent to ground control requested more information. The ruckus in 1st class came to climax when the three terrorists killed a flight attendant. Now the coach passengers understood that they had been hijacked. Cell phone calls to and from Flight 93 began rolling in as the killers made their bogus announcement we have a bomb, were going to land so the authorities can meet our demands, stay calm and no one gets hurt. The news the passengers were getting from the ground was not good and within thirty minutes it became clear that this was a suicide mission and Flight 93 was the missile of mass destruction.
The hijackers had picked the wrong flight; on board was an aggressive ex-football star, a rugby player on a national caliber team, a judo champion whod inadvertently broken an opponents arm in competition and several semi-athletes. They came to the collective realization that they were going to be used to kill thousands and destroy some sacred American institutional landmark. Fifteen minutes out of Washington the coach class passengers took a vote and those forty passengers and crew not already slaughtered like sheep decided enough was enough: they passed out knives from the kitchen, heated pots of boiling water, rolled jackets around forearms as protection against knife slashes and rolled a 300-pound food cart down that narrow narrow center aisle as fast as they could. Todd Beamon was talking to his wife when he told her hed have to get off the phone now, it was time: she heard his last words, no fear in his voice as he asked the others if they were ready. She heard him say, Lets roll. The grim, pissed-off men led the way down the aisle, armed with heavy fire extinguishers, knives and metal rods ripped from seats. The women passengers were right behind the first wave of American athletes carrying pots of scalding water they intended on throwing into the eyes of this cast of cowards that loved to subjugate, abuse and humiliate women.
The first hijacker they encountered was run down and run over with that food cart then ripped to shreds by the united pack of American wolverines; the men ran right over and passed this piece of decimated dog shit and the women finished him off. The guys burst through the cabin door and beat to death another hijacker before the islamofacist pilot spun the jet out of control. It hit the ground upside down at 528 miles an hour. The passengers of Flight 93 foiled the evil plans of the scum that tried to destroy a sacred piece of America. It was unclear if they planned to fly the jet into the Capitol building or the White House. My wife worked three blocks from the White House at the time and I always have had a special place in my heart for the jocks and She-Ra women on that plane who gave their lives to stop this insidious plot. I was struck hard by something at the end of the only show Ive ever seen dedicated to retelling this tale of extraordinary bravery on the part of ordinary people. On the 4th anniversary of a day that truly will live in infamy, television chose purposefully to forget. One final scene on this show that purposefully remembered showed a Pennsylvania junkyard worker, a prototypical working class prol with grey hair and a ponytail, a fortyish biker dude, a beer-drinking guy with big arms sticking out of the cut-off sleeves of a uniform with his name over the pocket. In his agro-American accent he plaintively, self-consciously told watching the plane fall to earth.
He was inarticulate but riveting as he earnestly retold his tale. He was working in the junkyard when he heard the jet and saw it come into view. He watched Flight 93 in its final minute plummet downwardas the islamofacists were being pummeled and beatenas the pain they loved to inflict was being inflicted on themas the terror they dished out was being served back to them in triplicateas they were on the receiving end of a 50-pound fire extinguisher having their faces caved in by an ex-football playeras they were having their limbs systematically broken by an American judo expert and getting beat down by a gay 260-pound rugby playeras the islamofacist had their faces scalded by women whod rather die than live as slaves. While this drama was actually happening, the modest oversized junkyard worker told in a quiet voice of watching the plane spin in the final seconds; then he lost sight of it just before he heard the explosion and saw the gigantic fireball light the horizon.Network TV couldnt be bothered to remember. While I watched this riveting tale, on the other channels Hollywood was simultaneously trying to gin-up ratings with potty-humor jokes, overt sex and endless laugh tracks. I listened to the junkyard worker tell of the final seconds of Flight 93 and saw something on his massive left arm: he was so moved by the heroism of those people that on his left bicep was tattooed FLIGHT 93.
Some of us will never ever forget. Some of us cant forget fast enough.
Thanks to Discovery Channel for airing a 90-minute no-commercial special on Flight 93.
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