You know that movie Snakes on a Plane? The one where everyone is peeing themselves because some idiot released a bunch of snakes onto a plane. Yeah, that one. Pretty scary stuff. Vipers and asps snapping at your ankles. At least that’s what I think it’s about, I haven’t actually seen it. I think the people who fly on airplanes are far more horrifying. I’m not talking terrorists. Yes, their scary. You’re pretty much guaranteed an explosive death with a terrorist. Regular passengers can drag their torture out for hours. |
| Why do I always have to sit next to this guy? |
You’ll find several personalities on an airplane. You have you’re I’m extremely busy business men. The I rolled out of bed and ran to the airport in my pjs and slippers people. The I really want to join the mile high club flyers. The white knuckle riders. The I want my free drinks, peanuts, flight wings pin, pillow, blanket, pain reliever, and anything else I have coming to me group. And the bane of every flyer, the single parent with four kids under the age of ten demographic. Mr. Busy will continually use his cell phone in flight. The pajama people will drool all over you for three hours. You’ll be afraid to go into the restroom after the mile highers. The white knuckler with grab your knee in a death grip Darth Vader could be proud of every time they think they hear the engine tone change. The gimme gimmes will call the flight attendant so many times they bungie cord his arms to the arm rest. And the single parent will have begged, bribed, drugged and possibly beaten their kids into submission, their voice raising an octave every time they have to tell one of their kids to sit down and shut up. Really, every ticket should come with a year’s worth of therapy to counteract the PTSD resulting from surviving a trip through the friendly skies.
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| If you're happy and you know it, share you meds |
In my humble opinion, I think every passenger should be given a handful of sedatives and hooked up to a catheter upon boarding the plane. Imagine, arriving to your destination calm, cool and slightly hung over without suffering the trauma of the above listed airport patrons.
Ok, so I'm reading this post and I'm asking myself...what kind of passenger is Hell Kat? I've gone over the list twice now and I didn't see anything that I thought fit.
ReplyDeleteI mean there has got to e category for the passenger who scares the heck out of the Air Marshall and makes the Pilot double check the locks on the cock-pit door?
You know, the passenger who glares at he hollering kids and they immediately get quiet. The passenger who tells the business man to turn off that darn phone before she makes him eat it.
So Hell Kat, what do we call that passenger?
Hell Kat's the person you WANT on your plane. She has no problem breaking some idiot's neck because he thought it would be a good idea to hide explosives in his rectum.
ReplyDeleteThis is too funny. Fortunately I have never had the pleasure of meeting super single mom in-flight with a super-sonic voice and four unruly children. My, do I feel deprived. However, I can compensate with Mr or Mrs Fear-of-Flight. I can wager these people against your super-sonic mommys. Mr or Ms Fear-of-Flight, are those persons who are often chain smokers, and their real fear of flying, doesn't stem from the aeroplane lifting into the skies, but the fear that they will have to endure the sheer torture of a 3 hour in-flight period where there will be absolutely no smoking. Despite that they have plastered 3 nicotine patches to their body, smoked two packs in the passenger waiting lounge, taken four qualudes and prozacs, and drank a half a bottle of Smirnoff, they still more high-strung that power lines coming from General Electric. If you have to sit next to one of these persons all the way from Berlin to Istanbul, you'll gladly trade for super-sonic mom, because their non-stop near-panic commentary will drive you over the edge. It starts with "OMG! What was that noise? Did you hear that noise? We're doomed now!" when they close the hatch to the passenger cabin, and it doesn't stop repeating itself until the wheels touch down at the destination. It's accompanied with gasps, outbursts and occasional screams of fear, and peaked with hysterical applause for the pilot for doing his job right, and saving the nicotine addict from certain death of endless cigerette denial. If you can endure a three hour flight with one of these people without fantasizing at least ten different ways to kill them, then there is something terribly wrong with you.
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