Of all the perfectly fine reasons to hate al Qaeda, I think what's become of air travel must be in the top five. This week, we have a guy who stuffed a bomb into his underwear, possibly even into his anus. My fingers trembling, I now remind you: when the shoe bomber appeared, we all had to start taking off our shoes.
But I'd gladly drop trou for every Barney, Wally and Ned manning the security station if I could just yell at a few deserving flight attendants. We can't do that anymore. They might turn the flight around and have us detained for questioning. So we walk on eggshells around these Napoleanic bitches, not defending ourselves.
"Sir! I need you to show me that your seat is up!" she yelled at me before takeoff. It was. She glared at me for not being wrong.
"Sir! Is your phone off?!?" she yelled as I was holding down the power button in response to the pilot's request that we turn off devices. She said it with such fearful urgency that I thought she was yelling at someone who was lighting a cigarette.
"WHOSE BAG IS THIS?" she yelled, outraged. It was mine. I was in the first row of first class, and I had no under-seat storage for bag, so I placed it in the large vertical luggage bin by the door.
"Mine," I said, thinking she thought my Ohio State backpack must surely belong to someone in coach, if not steerage.
"You can't put that here," she dripped disdain. "This is only for large bags. You have a spot under your seat."
Well actually, douchepacker, no I don't. The guy behind me is using it. How long have you been working this job, exactly? After I walked halfway down the plane and found a rathole in which to cram my bag, I returned to my seat and watched as she shut the still-two-thirds-empty luggage bin. After she placed her own backpack in there, of course.
The flight went on. Being in the first row apparently made me the very embodiment of all she hates about her life. Or maybe I look like the ex-husband who emotionally abused her. I can only hope so. For whatever reason, the seat for which I paid with 50,000 miles went without beverage service that day. Not a coke. Not a water. The whole 4.5 hours to Chicago.
I had to use the lavatory twice. The first time was, um, the more the more time-consuming of my two options. After about five minutes, I was washing my hands when there was a ungodly pounding on the door. Christ, the plane is going down. I opened the door. There was the stewardess. She pointed to a sheepish-looking Latina. "THIS WOMAN HAS AN INFANT WHO NEEDS TO BE CHANGED, AND SHE'S BEEN WAITING A REALLY LONG TIME."
"No. She hasn't."
"YES SHE HAS!" she actually shuddered with rage. How dare I question her supremacy? Her eyes flashed.
At this point, I was tired of her masturbating on me, but I was also wary of pissing off someone who would gladly perjure herself to an Air Marshall. I stewed in silence.
Shortly before we landed, I used the bathroom one last time. I left it exactly as I found it, but she still managed to 1) inspect it and 2) find flaw. "Who fucking does this?" I asked myself. She slammed the door and glared at me again. I was getting used to this. "Did I give her a fake phone number 10 years ago, maybe?" I thought.
"I need you to put the toilet lid down," she said as I was buckling my seat-belt.
I laughed. I pretended to read my newspaper. So she said it louder.
"I need you to put the toilet seat down right now."
"And I need a Diet Coke. How does it feel to need?"