Nobody should fly but me.

Every time that I fly, I am struck by the very real possibility that, while I am a semi-professional flyer, this might just be the very first goddamned time that ANY OF THESE OTHER FUCKERS HAVE EVER GOTTEN ON AN AIRPLANE. As I sit in O’Hare (shout out for electrically changing plastic seat covers-whoop whoop), I would like to present to you the top ten reasons why everyone who is flying today except me SUCKS.

10.  To begin, if you are, I don’t know, a person who has more than one brain cell, you understand the concept of checking in online the day before the flight. Click. Click. Print. OR Click. Click. Download. WHY, oh why, are there 40 people in line at the ticket counter?! Don’t annoy those poor people at the counter with your inability to function and whiny special requests. Those counters are for people under 12 traveling alone, over 90 doing the same and those who have a physical impairment that prevents online check in. You can check your bag at the curb. You shouldn’t be checking a bag, anyway, which brings me to. . .

9.  Unless you are going downhill skiing or competing in the Miss America Contest, if you are checking a bag, you have packed too much. Waaaaaay too much. People who overpack are exactly what is wrong with the world today. You want everything, when you want it, which is five minutes ago. You can’t compromise, can’t do without, can’t clean as you go. You are always second guessing, consuming, and panicking. With the above two exceptions and a maybe for your own destination wedding, though if I’m catching you in time, let me make a case for skipping a gown–it’s a total waste of money, if you have a doctor’s note or military orders that say otherwise, DON’T CHECK A BAG. It’s dumb.

8.  Let’s talk about TSA –Something happened in 2001. I’m not sure if you heard about it, but some assholes hijacked two planes and changed everything we think about safety in air travel. In prior and subsequent episodes of jackassery, other miserable weenies have tried and failed to hijack, blow up, crash, and just create mayhem on airplanes. Yeah, I get it, TSA isn’t perfect. Not even close. But if you don’t want to participate in TSA screening, aren’t responsible enough to plan ahead and leave enough time for it, or are just plain too damned important to be bothered, DON’T FLY. No joke. Make a new plan, Stan. As far as I am concerned, your incessant whining to the poor line manipulator and blue suited hall monitor that you are going to miss your flight if he doesn’t put you at the front of the line is evidence that you are a terrorist. If you think that TSA is useless, come up with a better plan and propose it to the government. Until then, SHUT UP and take off your shoes. ALSO, the rules have been in place for FIFTEEN YEARS! FIF–TEEN YEEEEEEEARS, motherfuckers! Have your boarding pass and ID out by the time you are in the front of the line. Have your shoes off, belts off, pockets emptied and jewelry off BY THE TIME YOU GET TO THE FRONT OF THE LINE!! We’re not asking you to cure cancer. We’re asking you to take the items that could be mistaken for weapons of terrorism out for inspection. It is a wonder to me that a group of 100 people will stand in a queue like sheep for 35 minutes staring at their Facebook timelines (note, you–yeah you, the short guy whose shoulder I was gawking over all morning–you are boring and stupid and so are all of your friends) but when they get to the front of the line, they have forgotten what the hell they are even doing in an airport. “What? Who, me? Oh, my shoes? Weird, I never knew that was a thing.” Also, I have a thirty page single spaced paper with footnotes prepared about people who put their belongings in seven filthy, never sanitized plastic TSA totes. The Cliff’s Notes version is this–I hope you get Hepatitis C.

7.   To the terminal power pigs out there–if you have to plug in three devices in the airport, you have failed to plan, you are an idiot and everyone hates you. Were you running Microsoft Corporate Headquarters from the plane? No? Then put your shit away and buy a book. You are in dire need of a book. Then there’s the OTHER kind of power pig–come on, we all know this person. . . they are standing around the desk at the gate using a Starbucks Napkin to wipe some pretentious aioli stain off of their fake back-alley Louis Vuitton satchel and trying rudely to force the attendant at the desk to upgrade them to first class. Let me tell ya something, if you didn’t PAY for first class, you aren’t first class. Sit your low rent ass down, eat a Subway and baked chips with the rest of us plebes and wait for them to call your boarding group number, you entitled piece of Group 4 crap.

6.  Let’s chat about getting on a plane. Airlines aren’t dumb. They load first class passengers first–the extra cost of the ticket is NOT for reheated rubberized chicken bits and a little more leg room, they are tickets to the comedy show of watching the rest of us stand around while, one by one, one hundred people learn how to walk in a line and put their bag away. WHY IS THIS SO HARD?! People don’t know their seat numbers! Did I accidentally step into the line for a parade celebrating colossal stupidity? These bastards ogle every seat for malingering moments on their slow stuttering walk to their row. Stop seat shopping and get to your own row, lollygaggers! Once they get to their row, instead of sitting down and letting everyone else get past, passengers slowly begin the “Please Punch Me Repeatedly in the Face” dance of, hmmm. . . which one of these is mine? Shall I slowly take my coat off here in the aisle? Should I negotiate with the flight attendant for a blanket right now while I’m holding up the loading of the plane? I wonder if, since I’m in the aisle seat, I should definitely sit down, buckle my seatbelt, and take out some complicated macrame project that I’m working on so that as the subsequent inside passengers on my row arrive, I will have to slowly pretend that letting people into a row where I am sitting is a magically delicious first and take five minutes re-folding my Hogwart’s banner or whatever and then forget how to remove the seatbelt.

5.   I would like to discuss for a minute my airplane real estate. My little plot of land at 9A is small, but I paid the rent in full. I have a certificate that proves my temporary ownership of this spot. Let me say this, as I am now sharing row 9 with some smelly neckless void–he’s big, like linebacker big and he’s sitting with his thighs spread as wide as the Starbucks merslut (look again at the whole logo, not just the circle and you’ll get it)–if you need to put the armrest up because it’s “Bugging you?” I don’t give a hamster’s ass if you are ‘buggin.’ This 2.5 inch metal divider is the personal space barrier that I pretend prevents me from catching your cooties! The armrest isn’t optional unless we’re lovers. And I don’t mean casual lovers. I mean, I’ve slept with you without shaving my legs, you know what I say in my sleep, lovers. This means NOT YOU. Get your torso out of my personal space. I get that some people are giant. It happens. I’m rude, you’re big. I’ll write down what I want to say instead of screaming it in your face. You buy two seats. There. Life is good.

Where am I? Oh right, 4.  Let’s talk about your in flight meal. Last month, I boarded a plane in Hartford, Connecticut with a woman who was carrying an apocalypse prep sized serving of lobster rolls in a greasy cardboard box with no lid. Her snack for the one hour flight was three pounds of cooked lobster chunks tossed in garlicky butter and shoved into wonder bread. I’ve ridden with oniony hamburger eaters, hard boiled egg salad tossers, pepperoni pizza munchers, granola bar crunchers, coffee slurpers, alcoholic binge drinkers. . . you name it, I’ve seen it. Here’s the food/plane gist–if it is stinky, messy or ridiculous, it is not airplane food. If it is loud, sticky or makes you burp or fart, it is NOT airplane food. Before you buy an item to masticate in my steel tube of annoyance presence, ask yourself this question, “Does this food impinge on other peoples’ comfort?” If the answer, on a scale of 0 to 10 where 0 means “I couldn’t even tell that my row mate was breathing” and 10 means “Geez officer, I can’t figure out either how I turned a boarding pass into a shiv, repeatedly stabbed him and managed to keep from getting blood splatter on my tray table once he started steaming mussels with a camp stove he pulled from his carryon bag,” any food that rates higher than a 2 IS NOT AIRPLANE FOOD.

3.  Manners. Yes. Manners. What happened to manners? What happened to saying excuse me when you bump my elbow with your handbag as you traipse down the aisle? Why do people not turn slightly to the side while retrieving items from the overhead bin? Let me tell you, looking up from my crossword puzzle to find your comfort pants clad crotch in my face is always a bad surprise. Why don’t people use please and thank you while ordering beverages from the flight attendant? Their service level is not tip motivated. That they can manage a smile at all when dealing with large quantities of traveling morons is a miracle. Why can’t people in airplanes pick up on social cues? When I have a book open on my lap, the crossword under that, I’m not making eye contact and I am wearing headphones, I am not currently accepting applications for the Please Tell Me Your Life Story Club. Seriously. We are not speed dating. There might come a time when we can choose our seat assignments by looking around at other passengers and choosing to sit with the most interesting ones. Today is not that day. Also, when that day comes, I’m sitting next to the mute ones.

2.  I would like to have a short conference with you about flying with children. If at all possible, don’t do it. There. I said it. Your kids are irritating. They’re irritating in restaurants, they’re irritating in the grocery store and they have no business in an art museum. A plane is worse than all of those things because I can’t stare openly at you with my best “bitch, please” face then sneer and leave. I am trapped with your bad parenting choices. And I bought a ticket to it. Let me assure you that NOBODY is into that kind of masochism. Now, some of you know that I’m not talking about YOUR children. The ones that are bathed, that don’t have a burbly lava low of neon green snot pouring out of their faces, the ones who play quietly in their seat and sleep in adorably contorted lumps over the armrest. I’m talking about the filthy, boogered, screaming, yelling, seat kicking, needy leeches that some of you have spawned. Those kids belong in one place and one place only–your home–okay, maybe reform school. This isn’t rocket science, either. As the mother of two grown humans, I can make you this promise. And I mean PROMISE. If your kid isn’t old enough to understand how to behave on an airplane, wherever you are taking him is a stupid waste of your time and money. They won’t remember it, it won’t impact their lives in any positive or meaningful way, and you are an irritating ghit for forcing us to endure their ear piercing screams while you drag them 1000 miles to sweat and whine all day in a rental stroller and eat a $20 Mickey Mouse shaped warm pretzel. Within two hours of landing, you will definitely say the following words to your spouse, “Why do we even bother? They would be having more fun in a $20 plastic back yard pool right now. And there’d be booze there for us.”

1.  Last, but certainly not least to make the top ten reasons that everyone else who is flying sucks. . . disembarking. I love it when a plane lands. I mean, honestly, I am on a voyage however you slice it so plane rides are pretty awesome, but after the whole taking off part, there is really just a lot of boring sitting around. The landing not only means that adventure is afoot (or completed) but it’s also kind of fun in a “WHEEEEEEE” sort of way. So, it is not landing that bothers me. What bothers me is that, as soon as the airplane lands, every dipshit on the plane is in some frantic race to be the first person off the plane. Once and for all, I’m going to clarify the social construct that is the one and only appropriate way to get off of a plane following a successful landing. If we’re crashing, you suckers better fight for your life because I have a black belt in carpet hot lava and I will jump OVER you to the exit row before you can say, “Just got elbowed in the face.” A. DO NOT stand up until the plane has stopped moving. Pack up your stuff–or don’t–if you want to hang out in the plane all day, that’s fine, too, and wait until the people about two rows up from you are standing to exit. Not standing to loiter in the aisle because the door isn’t open yet. Standing to exit, as in, all of the rows in front of them are already vacated. B. I don’t care when your connection is. At all. Don’t even bring it up. You’re not cutting in line. If your connection was tight, you should have paid for first class, they get off first. If you try to squeeze by everyone usurping your rightful position in the egress cycle, I will push you, shame you, talk loudly about how you kick puppies and generally make you sorry. C. When it is your turn and you finally grab your bag and walk the plank to the terminal, KEEP WALKING. Every time you people walk into the terminal, you hard stop cartoon style as if you were being forced to walk down a giant accordion folded Habitrail and you had no idea what would be at the end of your journey and the rest of us pile up on your heels while you gawk around at the new terminal. What?! Did you think that the new terminal would look just like the other terminal? Were you expecting that the airplane would land in the lobby of your hotel and we were walking you to your room? Are you waiting for Hula girls to give you leis? WALK dummy. Walk. To the bus station to buy your ticket home because I don’t want to share another plane ride with you!

Well, that’s all for now. Tune in next flight for an in-depth analysis of why I drop arsenic into the coca colas of passengers who wear pajamas to travel–because they had to get up so early.

About peikleberry

What's to say? I'm a chronic fun seeker and life marrow sucker. I live in an ancient brick house in a darling town with my perfect and tolerant husband, my two amazing teenagers (The Giant and The Ginger) and two blue Danes (Oliver and Periwinkle). A lover of obscure roadside attractions and museums of oddity, I travel, write, laugh, make friends, write letters, sometimes run, eat great food and drink good whiskey. I've never had a bad journey and every single day is my grandest adventure.
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