A friend of mine walked into an airport the other day, arrived at the check-in counter and said; “I’m going to Boston. I’ve got three suitcases. I want one sent to Denver, one to Atlanta and one to LA. The agent said, “I’m sorry sir, but we can’t do that.” My friend replied, “Why not, you did it last week?”

The airlines are much-maligned these days, cash-strapped, looking for any way possible to save money. The austerity affects both passengers and staff. If you follow the insightful weekly column by Patrick Smith in Salon.com  you will see how pilots, in whose hands we place our lives, are maltreated and underpaid.

The list of complaints against airlines or flying is not short; missing or lost luggage, delayed or cancelled flights, lack of information when delays occur, overbooking, long lineups at check-in counters, security, and immigration, skyway robbery prices at airport restaurants, and paying for everything but the use of the toilets once you’re on board.  

As someone who can eat most anything, I have always thought that the criticism of airline food was unwarranted. People who look like they dine generously on fast food, complain loudly about the meals on airlines, maybe because the food doesn’t contain all the sugar, salt, transfat and nitrates that have come to love. When you factor in logistic challenges, many airlines serve decent meals. And no matter how bad airline food seems to some, it provides the useful purpose of breaking up the monotony of the flight. So I like meal-time on the plane. It’s a surprisingly tasty, dexterously challenging, time-passing event, spoiled only by those unable to see five minutes into the future who time their trips to the washroom to coincide with the food carts filling the narrow aisle.

I venture to say that there are other places that offer up truly horrid food, swill that by comparion makes airline food seem like haute-cuisine. Hospitals come to mind, the food purposedly bad so that you don’t linger, prisons so you don’t come back, many truck stops, and any Chinese restaurant in a town of less than 2,000 people. Every such town has one. It’s where the first item they bring to the table is a tray of napkins to soak up the grease in which each dish floats, including the steamed vegetables.

But there is one thing with the airlines which doesn’t receive enough attention and protest – the people using its services. The flying public is an ass.

To be sure, most people on any given flight are polite, considerate and respectful. But among this decent majority, on almost every trip, are just enough idiots to make the two or ten hours in the air, a teeth-grinding, body-twisting, should I say something or not you fucking asshole, time.

Too many travelers either can’t grasp, or don’t care, that an airplane is public transportation. All of the annoying, often disgusting, personal habits that mark their lives at home, or in their cars, should be checked at the counter along with the multiple huge suitcases/trunks/chests they think they need for a five day trip. You’re coming back soon. Leave some of the wardrobe at home. You’re not a rock star; you have no entourage, and no need of two thirds of the stuff you’re lugging around.

There was a day when people gussied up a little to get on a plane. Those who didn’t want to dress up, took the bus. Yes, times have changed and air travel is more casual than it used to be. You shouldn’t have to wear a suit. Jeans, as long as there is no hole in the ass, are fine. Runners, even if they’re not designer, are cool as well. But the people who show up wearing flip flops should be stopped by an agent and made to buy shoes, or at least socks, preferably those big, grey, woolen ones that you can put on over rubber boots. The foot is an often ugly appendage, joined as it is to crammed, bent, sometimes hairy toes that point in different directions, topped off by ugly, poorly maintained, dirty, yellow toenails. No one should be trapped in a cabin looking at hideous hooves for two hours. At least you could look at Medusa in a mirror. Even an indirect glimpse at someone’s disgusting toes, could put you off your feed for days.

I was on a flight recently where a well-dressed, middle-aged couple took off their shoes to put their bare feet up on the bulkhead. Being a bulkhead fan, I was appalled. That horror was assuaged somewhat when a stewardess told them that for hygienic reasons they had to put their feet down. I would have added aesthetics to the argument, but nonetheless, they were told. However, like the clowns at the theater who like to drape their feet over the seats ahead of them, as soon as the attendant was gone, back up they went. But the crew was on to the malfeetsense, and another member came by to deliver the same message. It worked until take-off when soon enough, the feet were back up the bulkhead, spreading their toes, germs and disgust.

If the attendants tell you once not to do something, unless it is trying to light a shoe bomb, I am up for giving a mulligan. You’ve been warned, now stop. If, despite the admonishment, you persist in grossing out your fellow passengers, then you should be moved to the back row of the plane – especially if you have betrayed the bulkhead privilege. That way the crew can keep a close eye on you as they prepare the refreshments. However, if it happens a third time, then you should be stuffed into one of two bathrooms that economy is usually allotted. Since taking one bathroom out of play will cause large lineups, those in business class must be made to share their exclusive washroom with the folks in economy. Nothing gets something remedied quicker than inconveniencing the well-to-do. 

Another clothing “no fly rule” should be sweatpants. No one wants to see the outline of your dick, nor watch you pull the material out of the crack of your arse every time you stand up. If you’re so porky that you feel the need for sweatpants, they’re not allowed – and buy two seats. Sweatpant wearers are also arm rest hogs, not just by choice, but because their overblown bodies can’t be contained in such small spaces so they flow over into yours.

A third “no fly” apparel should be high-heeled shoes. If anything happens during the flight, you’re going to block the aisles trying to escape in those impractical implements, originally designed as instruments of torture. Additionally, you’re likely to poke a hole in the plastic slide causing it to deflate, forcing those behind you to jump from 30 feet. So check the high heels at the counter. You can resume your vanity and continue fucking up your spine when you are back on land.

Under no circumstances, ask me to trade my booked-well-in-advance aisle seat so you can talk to your friend. I will feel no guilt in telling you to fuck off. The person you want to sit with is someone you are going to see soon enough anyway. If you’re going to be with them in a few hours, you don’t need to talk to them on the plane. If it happens to be someone you haven’t seen in ages, then it is likely you don’t care enough about them to stay in touch. You’re not going to do it at my expense just because you bumped into them on a plane. Add them to MSN and chat ‘til your nails are worn. In the meantime, go watch the in-flight presentation in your assigned seat.

Speaking of seats, though they are designed to recline into the lap of fellow passengers, it is inconsiderate in the extreme to use this feature. Put the seat back a little if you like, but be conscious of the fact that the person behind you already has their knees in contact with the safety regulations handout in the seat pocket in front of them. Of course the offenders know this because they’re in the same situation. But that doesn’t stop them from slamming the seat into full recline even before the plane has taken off. You can pick out the sprawlers as soon they walk on; sunglasses; slick hair, talking on their cell phones, five carry-on bags, the “this is my plane” look on their faces.

Now as the person behind the recliner, you have two choices, clench your fists for the duration of the flight and do nothing or, using the palms of your hands, drive the back of the lounger’s seat so hard that if he or she hasn’t buckled up, they will be catapulted into the next row. Offer up a fake apology as you pretend to go to the washroom.

As stated earlier, the recliner, and other passengers, often arrive with numerous carry-on bags, plus laptop. Some airlines have cracked down on carry-on abuse, but too many turn a blind eye. They walk on with duffle bags that might be concealing Rush Limbaugh. These people think nothing of blocking the aisle for several minutes while they fill up all the compartment space for three rows with their essential baggage. If you need to bring that much stuff on board, fly Federal Express. Maybe you’ll end up sharing an island with Tom Hanks or Bob Denver, or his twin, Bobby “could have been someone” Jindal.

Then there are the cell phone bores, the ones who are so important, or so in love, that they ignore repeated announcements to shut their phones off. I saw one dumb twit trying to hoist her various carry-ons into the overhead bins while attempting not to lose the cell phone stuck between her cheek and ear. She looked like she had violin player’s syndrome. This episode took place in the aisle while people lined up for blocks behind her trying to reach their seats. She, of course, was oblivious to all. Come to think of it, why wasn’t she boarding by row number in the first place? Could it have been because she was talking on her mobile through all of the boarding announcements?

To hell with people’s safety, these idiots either can’t be out of touch with their network, or they have to tell someone over and over again how much they love them. For the first group, you’re not that important. If you help bring the plane down, they’ll replace you before your body stops smoldering. For the second, if you’re so much in love that you can’t go away for awhile without smooching and baby-talking on the phone, stay home. You probably shouldn’t be flying without a minder anyway.

Now we come to my pet peeve, pets. What in the name of flying dander are pets doing in the cabin? I recently shared a flight with a dog that didn’t shut up for three hours. Besides the constant yipping and whimpering, dog dust was floating through the recycled air affecting the breathing of all those with allergies. One in four persons is affected by allergies, so one quarter of the passengers on that plane were impacted by the soot of this annoying mutt. One hundred percent, minus the owners, were affected by the dog’s suckhole behavior.

There is no situation where a dog should be flying in the passenger cabin. But animals in cabins have become a thing. From Madame Fifi Fuckface with her purse puppy to LaLa Lulu who thought it cute to fly with her miniature pony, cabins have become mangy menageries. When you can pay a couple of hundred dollars online for a total fucking bullshit super certified certificate from Eastern Europe or Nigeria, even a spitting cobra can be classified as a service animal. And of course so many people have need a of a flying service animal these days. It used to be American Express that you couldn’t leave at home, now it’s your emotional support platypus.

This is the age of pyschology. Dr. Phil and Dr. Wayne Dyer and Deepak Chopra and other snakeoil salesman, talk solemnly of healing and spirituality and meditiation and safe places and getting in touch with your feelings. They do this to the point where we’ve become feebleminded wimps. Our species woud not have survived if our ancestors had been so dependent. Life is no longer what happens to us, rather a series of traumas that require experts to help us survive. Everyone has a condition. And if you don’t, wait a week, psychologists will invent one for you. My favourite acronym and condition is SAD. It’s great because it’s available to anyone who doesn’t live in Mexico. Seasonal Affective Disorder. SAD’s been specifically created for those who don’t like the cold or gloom of winter, which is pretty much everyone except those who ski on snow or skate on ice. It’s also the harbinger of the end of homo sapiens, well straight sapiens too. 

We are now a society that has to take a timeout, to share its feelings with complete, often indifferent, strangers. We have become a global support group, unable to solve our own problems, even with the help of family and friends. We need to admit the problem is greater than us, and greater than those who love us. We have to give ourselves over to Jesus, or if he’s busy, or of no help, to expensive addiction clinics, psychological help on an industrial scale. Despite all the qualifed help we get from mind experts, who for thousands of dollars have our well-being at heart, if we relapse, more likely than not having been told repeatedly we’re too weak to handle life by ourselves, we will see many of the same faces that we saw the first go round. We are so emotionally fucked up, we need a lifetime of mollycoddling. 

And now some people can’t fly two hours without an animal. It could be a service animal or a support animal. Either way, it has no idea how to read, speak your language, use the washroom, or stop sniffing buttholes, but somehow he gets you. This poor animal, who would rather be anywhere than on this fucking plane, understands you in way that no one else can, at least when you have a treat in your hand. Between those, who with the complicity of some in the medical profession, see a way to game the system, and those who have convinced themselves they can’t leave home without a lesser-evolved species next to them, plane cabins are replete with allergens, piss, shit and noise.

There is no case for a dog to be on an airplane. As sympathetic and respectful as I am to blind people, a guide dog does not belong  in the cabin. There is nothing a guide dog can do that a flight attendant can’t do much better. In the worst case scenario, a guide dog would be a hindrance to a blind person trying to find the nearest exit. 

If you own a dog or a cat, there are options. If you’re going away for a short time, leave the thing with a friend or at an animal hotel. The dog will remember you when you return; absence may even make the heart grow fonder. The cat is totally indifferent other than viewing you as a source of easy meals. If you really can’t leave home without your pet, load up the car or motor home and take Rover or Fluffy along. 

A car is also a useful pet conveyance for those who are moving permanently. If you’re within the borders of a continent, there’s no problem. Bring the freeloader along, open the door when you arrive and let him out in his new surroundings. If you are moving overseas, then put him in a box and hoist him onto a cargo ship. Remember to poke holes in the box so he can breathe during the few weeks on the ship. When the ship docks, let him stretch a little before teaching him a few key words words in the local language. “Cuidado con ese maldito camión” would be a good place to start.

An alternative to having the dog travel in a crate for weeks, is to trade him in at home and pick up another in your new locale. There are animals and reptiles in all parts of the world. Your former best friend will soon forget you and you’ll own a new “can’t live without you” critter in your life, one who will be incredibly loving and supportive, as long as you have milkbones in your pocket.

The additonal benefit of not having pets anywhere on planes, is that it would clear up space beneath the passenger cabin for families traveling with small, screaming kids, the ones who never stop bellowing from London to New York. It may seem harsh to some to stash babies and small kids in baggage, but the little tykes could howl to their hearts’ content and my oblivion.

Because that legislation may take longerto enact, can’t you shut that kid up? You’re his mother, a large part of your responsibility as a parent is to make sure the brat is seen, assuming he’s not too ugly, but not heard. If you can’t handle this task when the urchin is a few months old, what the hell are you going to do when he reaches middle school age? You have breasts, use them. If you’re the father and you’re responsible for the boisterous bastard while mother searches for the Tylenol, or hides in the washroom, try the bro or the mansierre and a discreet baby bottle. If you can shut the kid up, I know I won’t think the lesser of you.

Now this may seem like a long list of things you can’t do, or wear, or bring when flying, but it isn’t. In fact, these are common sense practices that most people exercise. You just have to get over the fact that you’re not special. You’re sharing confined public space and all you have to do is use your head a little, think of someone else besides yourself for a couple of hours. When you land, you can revert to the narcissistic asshole you are back in your self-indulgent world.

There was an episode on Seinfeld where Elaine had a troublesome rash that required medical treatment. Because of previous bad comportment, she ended up being blacklisted by the entire New York medical community. The punishment was unduly harsh and an overreaction to her supposed infractions. However, the concept is one that the airlines should adopt with inconsiderate passengers. It’s time to start taking names. If we can bar potential terrorists from flying, we can surely ground obvious jackasses. A few coast to coast bus trips should get their attention. After an appropriate exile period, give them parole, forcing them to fly with a responsible adult until such time as the parole officer and the airlines agree that the transgressor has earned another chance.

And one more thing, when in public – don’t clip your nails, finger or toe, you unsanitary pig.

Copyright © 2009 Paul Heno