DoorDashing smashburgers to your private jet

Hello, and welcome to the second-ever FOIAbites. The haters said we’d never make it this far. But here we are.

So let’s dive right in.

The first time I ever left Las Vegas, I only made my flight thanks to a swift kick to the midsection, courtesy of my brother-in-law. I stayed up all night, thinking I could party straight through to a 7 a.m. departure. But at the gate, I found my duffel bag too inviting a pillow to pass up, falling asleep on the airport floor.

Whatever, I was 21. 

The next time, this past February, was better, but not by that much. We opted for a Sunday night red-eye home, which meant lingering in Sin City long after we wanted to leave. It didn’t help that our 9 p.m. departure got repeatedly pushed back while we waited at the gate. 

On both flights, I was stuck deep in coach, my only luxury a paltry plastic cup of water. 

I’d much rather depart Vegas on a private plane with a catered spread of smashburgers delivered right to my jet before departure.  

What I’m saying, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, is that I’d rather be Matt Rhule.