I really think people would make a lot less war and a preponderance of love if stewardesses were everywhere.
I'm not saying completely remove the skirted saints from the miles of high above. The ways of the sky are mysterious, and benevolent guides with southern twangs and names like Trixie and Dixie must be there, by our side, holding our hands and cooing our anxiety away.
God knows our appendages get colder than a polar bear's hindquarters when we fly, and mass quantities of hot towelettes must be provided continuously in combat of frostbite. And I don't know about you, but if it were left up to me, I'd never be able to find the bathroom on an airplane. I'd get lost, give up and relieve myself, then blame the subsequent smell on the snoozing Texan businessman in the cowboy hat beside me.
And who could forget those salty peanuts? Human beings must intake salty peanuts at high altitudes as the Ancient Greeks proved so long ago.
Stewardesses indubitably are a necessity in the skies. So all I'm saying is why shouldn't they be out in squads on land, too? We have firemen, policemen and even the dear meter maid - all with respective vehicles and accessories - so a squad of stewardesses with woo-wooing sirens on one monster salty peanut buggy wouldn't be altogether insane.
I want to say the stew-mobile would be pink, or perhaps lavender, but a shrieking feminist shrilly protests in the back of my brain and rallies together neuron blocking picket lines that disrupt everything Jake and gives me runny noses, so nay to the pink. The color of the stewardess squad future would be rose, because rose is most definitely not pink.
My dad once got these blinds, right. And they were pink! So, I say, "Dad, what's the deal with those pink blinds?" To which he goes, "Son, now son, those are rose blinds." Thus, stewardesses will ride about in rose-colored cars because if my dad can purchase rose blinds, then feminists have no causation for running amok up in my brain.
On further brainstorming of stewardess- mobiles for my platoon, I don't think those simple four-seater-I'm-a-wannabe-cop Hondas are spacious enough for the aforementioned preponderance of love. What can two stewardesses do if they only have room for like a half a bag of peanuts and an etch-a-sketch emergency diagram? Well, that's all Trixie and Dixie are able to fit into their rose colored cop-copycat car. It might as well be a Hot Wheel.
Forget about gas mileage, a'ight! Give those girls some space. Give them multiple wheels that vavavroom down the highway. Loudspeakers blare Bananarama retro lunch break hit "I'm Your Venus." Pippy, the flat-faced Pekinese squad dog, yips into the breeze. They'll have Cookie, Candy, Ginger and Jaques going fireman along the semi's peripheral looking both fierce, yet approachable. They'll be able to stop by Sam's Club and shop in bulk because the storage space on the stewardess wagon will be bangin'.
Okay, now that all that has been made ready-to-order, the real life application will hit my point out of the sandlot and into James Earl Jones's backyard.
Scenario number one: "GOD! What a rough day at work! Geeze! I hate my life! And now, look at this traffic I'm in! AHHHH! I am going to hang myself with a twisty tie if I don't move at least an inch in the next 10 minutes!"
Sound familiar? Traffic causes more suicide attempts than Carrot Top each year, but the madness can cease and desist today if stewardesses were out patrolling.
Intervention: Dude is flipping out in his car, reaching for said twisty tie whilst frothing at the mouth, when - Uh-oh - he hears a tappa-tappa. Guy looks over and sees Trixie motioning for him to roll the window down. The dude obeys and is greeted with a sparkling Rembrandt smile, accompanied by a perky lil' head bob and an offer, "Hot towelette? Peanuts?"
Twisty tie drops because everything is now okay.
Scenerio number two: Erma and Patty are out of their element at a new mall in a strange place that smells of bologna. Erma bites her lip as she looks over at Patty. Free refills aren't always a good idea, she thinks to herself, as her bladder sounds an alarm that convulses through her naughties like fire. The two women begin searching for a bathroom, but get lost in Macy's for two hours. Erma cannot take it anymore. She circles a clothes rack as Patty creates a diversion, submerges herself in marked-down Christmas sweaters, then...
Intervention: Jaques pops his head past a knit Frosty the Snowman cardigan, and with a perky lil' head bob, he yanks Erma out.
"Bathrooms are here," he says as he points to the right. "Here," single point to the left, "and here!" double point right down the middle. Steward saves the day yet again.
Come on President Bush, get on this. You've often been criticized as being a bit, errr, slow, but by enacting some sort of stewardess guard mandate, you my friend will get your own commemorative plate set on QVC. Stewardesses save lives and department store carpeting.
In conclusion, peace will never come to the Middle East until stewardesses parachute down from the heavens to join us here on earth. They will say, "Talk to the hand," to death, famine, war, pestilence and Carrot Top, and disperse salty peanuts to orphaned kittens and starving B-list celebrities.
"Hot towelette?"
Yes please!
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