Chaos erupted at Caracas Airport this morning as the earth itself decided to join the mile-high club with an uninvited shudder. Tremors, presumably triggered by the collective groaning of Venezuelan infrastructure, sent British airlines into a tailspin of rerouting. No casualties were reported, which is frankly a miracle given that the airport's structural integrity relies on the same principles as a house of cards in a hurricane.
Passengers, who had been expecting a pleasant layover, were instead treated to a free demonstration of tectonic plate salsa dancing. British Airways, in a statement, said they were 'monitoring the situation,' which is code for 'we're pouring a stiff gin and hoping it stops.' The quake, measured at a modest 5.
2 on the Richter scale, was enough to remind everyone that Mother Nature has a savage sense of humour: she picks the one place where a slight breeze could bring the roof down. One stranded traveller, a Mr. Algernon Croft from Tunbridge Wells, was overheard muttering, 'First Brexit, now this.
The Empire really is crumbling.' Indeed, it seems the only thing stable about Caracas Airport is the queue for the duty-free rum. As of press time, no further tremors have been reported, but the aviation industry's nerves remain as frayed as a politician's conscience.
