It’s Plane to See

Dear Mr. Eccentric

Sir, you’ve got to help me. Right now I’m on a airplane headed to Australia. We left from Newark NJ and the captain said we’re currently just over Redding, PA. The problem is the child in the seat behind me has already begun the whole kicking the back of my seat thing and he looks like he’s had a few caffeinated beverages… I see no end in sight and no work getting done on this flight.

What should I do?
Rich and Flighty CEO
30,000ft, OH

Ah, the miracles of modern technology. Not only can you bug me from a 30 ton flying cigar tube traveling at supersonic speeds, but you can be bugged as well for hours on end – strapped to your doom with a hyperactive mite in the 2×2 open-lid coffin behind you..

This reminds me of my days working the old Northwestern Pacific Railroad Line. They had just installed one of those newfangled telegraph line thingys. Cripes almighty it was annoying. When it didn’t dot-dot-dot on about ladies corsets or the latest rhino horn, my co-engineer was busy dash-dash-dashing his girlfriend in Tulsa. “Get off the line you damn Irish,” I’d say… but he wouldn’t listen, what with the phonograph bell in his ear and all.

Anyhoo, the train got all robbed and whatnot one day. I tried to message ahead for help; but, when we got to our stop later on, I heard that there was a cow with a bucket on her udder sittin’ there on the tracks mooing in Morse code… so the locals burned her for being a witch, forgoing the desired help sending effect.

Things have progressed nicely since then, and luckily for you there were no unholy ducks with antennae to interrupt your email to me. Dang it.

So, to answer your question I quote an unruly mob… “JUMP! JUMP! JUMP!” It’s your only recourse. What you think is a vexatious child in the seat to your aft is actually a highly trained air marshal. It’s part of the FAA’s top-secret terrorist identification program. They figure any terrorist would never put up with the undisciplined antics of a spoiled American-pig-sloth child, and reveal themselves.

To beat his head with a shovel will only get you shot; to ask his mother to do something would offend her and get you maced or glared at by the collective unconscientious unconsciousness of the other bad parents on the plane. That causes cancer my friend.

The parachute’s by the door,
Mr. Eccentric.