This blog is dedicated to the occupants of seats 18-A, 18-B and 18-C on United Airlines Flt. # 340 from Chicago O’Hare to BWI. I know you will never see this blog, but I’m certain the therapist I’ll be hiring in the very near future would have recommended that I find a benign way to vent my frustrations in the interest of good mental health.
So here goes: I hate your family. For myriad reasons which I will attempt to enumerate, but undoubtedly fall short of conveying completely.
To the little boy seated direcly behind me in 18-B:
I’m glad you shat in your pants.
Perhaps if you hadn’t been so consumed with kicking my seat and punching the back of my headrest, you would have realized you had to shit before they turned on the ‘fasten seatbelt’ sign. It filled my heart with a Christmas-y sort of glee when I heard your fruitless cries of “I have a boo-boo in my pants” ring out thru the cabin. The awful stench of retribution was suprisingly gratifying. Ha. Serves you right. Sit in it.
To the little girl seated on her father’s lap in 18-A:
While you’re no longer an infant and should know how to behave better, I recognize you’re probably too small to take full responsibility for your incessant shrieking. It’s not your fault you were born to two people so acutely unfamiliar with the concepts of discipline and propriety. So I’m gonna let you slide. Kinda.
To the two turds masquerading as parents in 18-A & 18-C:
As you are responsible for the creation of this family unit, the blame for what I and the other passengers had to endure this evening rests solely upon your shoulders. Perhaps you couldn’t do much about your youngest child’s screaming — maybe her ears were popping, who knows… But your older son’s unacceptable and unchecked behavior warranted a beat down. And you know it.
I travel a lot. And I’ve had to listen to tons of crying babies and restless children. But your absolute refusal to acknowledge your son’s behavior — even after he kicked my seat so hard he woke me up and propelled me forward into my lowered tray table — OUCH; even after two flight attendants came over to ask me if I was OK… Completely unacceptable.
No discipline. No ‘be quiets’. No embarrassed apologies… You should no longer be permitted to fly.
Or reproduce.