They just seem to be getting worse. Regardless of what airline you plan on flying, they are all terrible. Since Sept. 11, we have to submit ourselves to all types of security searches even though secure feelings don't usually take over when you look around at the other passengers. And due to the record number of airline travelers over this past holiday, things got quite hasty.
With Christmas right around the corner, and the ridiculous amount of turkey and dressing I consumed over Thanksgiving, I should be in high spirits. Unfortunately, I have to fly home, and flying commercially could make a preacher cuss. Have you ever noticed that no matter where you are flying to, what airline it is or which airport you are in, your gate is always the last one in the entire terminal, as if some wily air traffic controller is sitting in the tower laughing at your plight?
But once you make the long arduous walk past countless magazine stands hawking the latest trash magazines boasting some new scandal with the Hilton sisters, the gate offers no more solace than a pack of cannibals coming off a long fast. Constant delays and over-booking plague what is supposed to be a service based on catering to the client, and in my case Sunday, there was no plane.
"Folks, I've got some bad news" -- something every commercial traveler wants to hear from the incompetent man who ended up running the show. "It's looking like we might have a plane in here by 5:10 at the earliest. If everything goes smoothly, we should be able to have you in Charlotte by 7:30. I realize many of you have connecting flights to catch, but unfortunately when I called the Charlotte airport they said they would not be holding flights."
Delay number one for what would become yet another long day in the world of U.S. aviation. They never really told us exactly why the plane wasn't there, but considering that our original time scheduled to leave Memphis International was 4:10, you can understand my frustration. Luckily, the hippie sitting next to me staring solemnly at the carpet wasn't worrying; a calmness echoed through his glassy eyes, down his hemp necklace and onto the still highlighter pointing towards the looming ceiling rather than at his neglected textbook, brought home no doubt like all of my books in some distant hope that we would actually study over the break. Well, happy as the hippie was, my clenched knuckles were only answered with a very emotion- filled, "Once again I do apologize on behalf of US Airways, and we thank you for your continued understanding and cooperation."
So why is it, exactly, that airlines try to annoy us to the fullest extent? Have they forgotten that humans can't really fit in the two-foot cube of space they ration out to us for hundreds of dollars? Perhaps they have fallen past the level of human understanding and decided to turn the pressurized cabin into a tubular prison rather than a flying caravan.
And how about the flight attendants? Didn't they used to be attractive females, or is that just another pipe dream shot to us as children that we were to discover along with the Santa Claus myth to be fiction in a crushing awakening to reality? Instead, a short excuse for a human of questionable sex and a very strong case of anal retentiveness walks down the aisle and commands you, "Could you please not cross your legs; your foot is protruding into the aisle?"
I mean was this guy kidding? Not only do they deny us the common decencies every human has now become accustomed to, but we aren't allowed to recline or move our feet anymore. Instead we must smile along with the thing in the uniform and sit in the seat which pushes your back forward since the back is at an acute angle with the seat -- very good for your spine.
So after using all my strength to not stab the flight attendant in the face with my pencil, we finally land in Charlotte an hour and a half after we are supposed to, but thank God: I could still make my connecting flight! What's that? There is a plane parked at our gate still? Typical. No, we get to sit longer under the strict supervision of Mr/s. Obsessive Compulsive as we wait for the other plane to depart, stuck in a pressurized tube, shaking from rage, and required to keep the seat belt fastened -- and this thing posing as a human working as a flight attendant made sure they were tightened. But no worries, I'm sure that even when not on the ground and in the air, wearing a seatbelt could save your life when you are plummeting towards the earth in a metal weight held together by fuel and flammable gasses. Right?
Pushing your forehead against the stiff excuse for a seat in front of you in an attempt to look at the floor to keep your rage at the attendant from overflowing, you are answered by the man in front of you slamming his back into his seat smashing the tray table, that is of course in its upright and locked position, into your face. The attendant smiles at you. Rage.
Barely making it to the gate for my connecting flight to our beloved Charlottesville, I find that yet again, we are delayed. This time for two hours, yippee! And after much waiting, finally flying, then descending through clear skies that somehow caused the ride to feel like a roller coater falling off the tracks and crashing into a mountain, they lost my bag. "Sorry sir, it looks like your bag has been sent to Richmond, but we'll ship it to you whenever we locate it." God only holds the secret to when that day will be.
So in conclusion, I think I will have to become extremely wealthy, because commercial airlines have changed from a service to the community to a plague on general society, and I need a private jet.
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