Air Rage

I have air rage. I used to have road rage but I’m over that now. I’m no longer in such a hurry. But I still get air rage. It’s not the delayed flights, hoity-toity flight attendants, not even the longer waits from the new security measures. My rage stems from carry-on luggage. Nothing frustrates me more to see some half-wit try to jam his oversize duffel bag full of golf balls and shot glasses into the overhead bin while, in the process, he proceeds to violate my allotted space and squish my regulation size carry on bag with my single piece of Lladro souvenir. I am going to invent a high power hydraulic carry-on-bag-smasher. If your carry-on is larger than the size laid out by the airline industry, the flight attendant (or me) will promptly take your bag, insert it into my new bag masher machine and the hydraulic press and stainless steel walls will make your bag instantly compliant with the rules.

“Excuse me, sir. I don’t think your tennis rackets comply with our size regulations. Will you please give them to me?”

“Sure, what are you gonna…” Crunch! Snap! Whizzzzz!

“There you are.”

Ahh. I can deal with being cramped up in seats that are strategically spaced with the least amount of comfort in mind if I can watch some dude’s stuff get crunched.

Back

I’m back from Cancun. I made it back in one piece, too. A little sunburned but I’ll survive. Too tired to write anything write now but we had an interesting time actually getting there. We sat in the airplane, in Cincinnati for almost four hours. Why? Because of this. Ahhh, the joys of heightened and tightened security.