Friday, December 25, 2009
Skipping over the Mexicans, we arrive in South America where the beaches are beautiful and the rainforests are plenty…plenty dense enough to hide all of the cocaine farms! No, but really, this is true. If one is planning a journey to the deep jungles of South America, one must always remember to not go into Colombia. If you do, you risk being knifed, raped, shot, ripped apart, hit by a blunt object, or all of the above at the same time. Notorious for the inhospitality and the crime, Columbia is an excellent example of where not to go in the world. Now, Brazil is a place to go. If ever in South America, go to Brazil and enjoy the beaches and the much-alluded-to sexy Latino women. But, as always, be careful. If you are at the beach and happen to step two feet away from the shore line you will, I repeat, you will fall into the rainforest and be mauled to death by army ants or any of the insane and destructive animals located in its entrails.
As one moves to the islands located in the Caribbean, things really get wacky. I will now proceed to exclude more people from the Latin community. Any of the tiny, outlying islands past Puerto Rico = not Latin. A prime example of this is the U.S. Virgin Islands or St Maartin. The former belongs to the U.S. which means it is incredibly not Latin. The latter is half French which makes it bisexual…not Latin. As one moves onto the Greater Antilles, there begin to exist actual Latin people. In Puerto Rico, my homeland, the women are nice and the beaches are nicer. It is like the US, but shrunk down to about the size of a cardboard box. If one ever visits, there will be much enjoyment as long as the slum known as “La Perla” is avoided. Translated, it means “The Pearl” and, if John Steinbeck’s crappy book is any indication, this place is equally shoddy and decrepit.
Passing Puerto Rico, one arrives at Haiti and the Dominican Republic. I guess they’re Latin. They speak Spanish, right? Anyone that, when speaking English, pronounces “speak” as “spik” is most definitely Latin. The poverty-stricken landscape of this island is indicative of the bad stuff that happens when a country is Latin. Latino should be an acronym or Lots of Annoying Torment for Idiocies of Neighboring Overlords. Basically, this is what occurs. When a Latin country (like Haiti and Dominican Republic) becomes free, a fight for power ensues in which some sort of tyrant or dictator comes to power and screws everything up for everyone. In the Dominican Republic’s case, the island got split politically in two…good job.
Cuba, on the other hand, is a different story. Let’s start off by saying that Miami should just break off from the U.S. and personify a malignant tumor on Cuba’s side because its overrun with Cubans. Secondly, Fidel Castro (possibly one of the biggest and most recognized names in history) is a horrible person. He scared the Cubans so much that they sought to make another Cuba in the former’s image (hence the takeover of Miami). Now, apart from speaking like if they have a mouthful of marbles, the people are easy enough to get along with and probably provide Americans with a multitude of hearty laughs. “Oye Esse!” is a prime example. I can’t even begin to count the times when I’ve told an American I’m from Puerto Rico and the first words out of his mouth are either “Porto Ricoooo” or “Esse!” both of which are said in a crappy attempt at a Latin accent.
Now that everyone is properly acquainted with the Latin community, I will describe what everyone else perceives us as being useful for: cheap labor or jokes. The cheap labor part is self explanatory and sort of ties in with the whole joke scenario. If the person is a Latino, they must immediately know how to clean and/or cook. We are humble servants in a white world. If a Latin person walks into a house, all the White Man wants to know is if he/she can say “Si señor…” and take orders in English. This directly correlates, as mentioned beforehand, with the whole idea of jokes. As a Latin person walks into any situation, the first comment, whether serious or not, will be about some sort of cleaning or maintenance. “Shut up and clean the floor. It’s what I don’t pay you to do!” is a key example of such things. In all fairness, that is what we are…in America. Otherwise, we are perfectly dignified people. For some reason, as soon as a Latin person enters American soil, there is some sort of compulsion to clean everything in sight. I suppose this could be considered some sort of Latin AIDS. The HIV virus was made to kill gays (duh! It’s totally not a conspiracy!) the same way as this disease seems to have been created to put all useless Latinos to work. Hats off to the Americans…good job for once.
So, we have learned that Latin people are cheap laborers, have cocaine readily accessible, are poor, like to clean, are the subject of a myriad of jokes, and don’t use protection and that’s why there are so many rampant babies around. Oh, wait, I didn’t mention the last one? Well…now you know. Add that one to the list. Throughout our travels—Brazil, Colombia, not Mexico, Puerto Rico, the Dominican Republic (and Haiti), and Cuba—we have learned what it truly means to be a Latin person. For example, we have endeavored through our travels and attained enough knowledge to say that people in the Lesser Antilles aren’t Latin, but simply white people that interbred with Africans to create a race of islanders that the forests subsequently made savage. The whole time, though, we have still gone on without a clue as to what the Jamaican people are. I am positive they aren’t Latino. Maybe some devolved form of African American? Anyway, the main point of this is to get the message across that Latin people aren’t as bad as they are made out to be…so long as they are kept away from narcotics and knives, anything that has a vagina (ages 13-25 only), and are always working (preferably some sort of house cleaning or heavy machinery). See? Not too bad at all.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Your favorite show has just gone on commercial break and you sit idly by, waiting for it to resume. All of a sudden, you hear a piano intro…here it comes. A picture of a sweet, dark-skinned young boy or girl appears on the screen; a slideshow of veritable slums. It is sad…depressing really. “You can adopt little Mika…and give her the chance to go to school; to live another day.” Me? Really? I wanna save Mika! She is so unbearably cute! I want to adopt a little African! …alright, what is wrong with the world? Somehow, Africans are viewed as objects to adopt and take care of. The media assumes that we are all Angelina Jolie and want to have one. They aren’t some kind of puppy or kitty! They are human beings! …at least I think. They are, right? Hm…anyway, I find it disturbing that the only thing that these little children will ever be used for is to make money. We know it’s not really going to their education…it’s going right into someone’s pocket because the only profession that the Africans will be able to pursue is that of Track Racing.
This year’s 5k…who won? A Kenyan. The Olympics…who won? A Kenyan. The World’s Best 10k…who won? A Kenyan. It seems that the only representation Africa ever gets is from the Kenyans. As if one would visit Africa and go on some quintessential safari not expecting to find any bouts of population except in Kenya and being utterly surprised when they do. In all fairness to the Kenyans, no one will ever beat them because they have the best training methods—rampant lions and some sort of venereal disease. One of them is placed in the middle of the Serengeti and, with strange clicks and vocalizations, told to find his way back to the village. Talk about intense training. He knows to avoid thick brush because a lion will chase him, and he also knows to always keep away from any kind of living organism (except for plants) because a single brush with any bioform will give him AIDS, gonorrhea, hepatitis A and B, Malaria, and sickle cell anemia…no, wait, scratch that, they’re born with that last one.
In all fairness, the Africans did contribute something to the world: Egypt. The thing is…the Egyptians aren’t even stereotypical Africans. They look like they belong somewhere in the Middle East. For all intents and purposes in my blog, Egypt and all contributions from the Egyptian culture in this blog (including the super-sweet pyramids) will now be moved to the Middle East. They are no longer a part of Africa. So, assuming that Egypt has now broken free of Africa, I am willing to propose a change to the scheme of the world continents. Change the name “Africa” to “Kenya” and vice versa. This way, everyone will know where and what “Kenya” (the new Africa) is. All of a sudden, the world will realize the importance of getting chased by ravenous beasts of the wild and selling children. “Kenya” will finally…literally...be on the map. This way, even the Americans will be able to find it. And that is a feat all in its own.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
I have just recently finished my semester at college and was going to fly to my homeland of Puerto Rico. Alongside me were my trusty laptop and my good-old guitar. These two objects possessed the innate capacity to make my life heaven and destroy my shoulders at the same time. Let the reader now be aware that I was going to have to walk through two airports with my two 50+ pound carry-ons (yes…they did weigh that much). The reason that I had brought my guitar with me as a carry-on was because I was flying United. You read correctly: United. You know, the one that breaks guitars. I had remembered as I was packing that airplanes had this cool cubby thing where all the pompous people in first class placed their 500 dollar Gucci coats for safekeeping. Maybe my guitar could find a home there? As I boarded the plane, I asked the first flight attendant about the “cool cubby thing” and she looked at me blankly for a couple of seconds.
“How much money do you have?” she said.
Hmmmmm…I didn’t expect this. I decided to freeze time in my head and think about the situation (yes I do this and no I’m not schizophrenic). How should I go about this situation? …let’s try something.
I looked around and leaned closer as I whispered, “A crap load…”
She immediately started laughing and so did I and she proceeded to point towards the front of the plane. I placed my guitar safely in the cubby and sat down in my seat. 2 hours of fake airplane sleep and 250 of the 500 days of summer later, the plane had touched down. I waited for everyone to vacate the premises and headed towards the front. To my alarm, I saw people cleaning the scraps from the floor and seats in strange reflective clothing reminiscent of construction workers and blocking the entrance to the front. As I tried to scoot past them to get my guitar back, two flight attendants near the door asked me if I was looking for a guitar. I nodded.
“Oh…well…your guitar…” said one as he looked towards the floor in a bout of sadness and apology.
My eyes went wide and for the first time I was speechless. No witty comments…no funnyness…not even a comeback. UNITED DOES BREAK GUITARS!
“You’ve seen the video I take it…” said the other flight attendant.
They both stared at me in dismay. I looked back at them. No response. All of a sudden they both start laughing and the guy points behind me and there sits my guitar, comfortably cradled in one of the seats by the door. Glee…that is the only word to describe it.
No. United doesn’t break guitars—United LOVES guitars. And apparently they have a sense of humor to boot.
(Check out the full video that I mentioned in this post right here:)
Sunday, December 20, 2009
“Say it again! Say it again!” the girls chant.
The man calmly takes a sip from his beer and says, “Ellow.” All the girls giggle.
Ugh. It’s a European again. For some reason, those people always happen to come to another country to take away the women. Also, for some other reason that I can’t seem to grasp, women have this fantasy of some sexy French or Italian man with luscious locks that’s going to come and sweep them off of their feet. They then proceed to compare every man they ever meet to this dream image of a guy that seems to come right out of the pages of Ralph Lauren. It becomes tiresome to say the least. So, in honor—or should I say, honour—of these annoying fems, I will proceed to destroy everything they know and love about Europeans and their culture. Let this be a lesson.
Firstly, we can start out with those uber ego-centered Brits. They speak in a form of English that sounds as if they were mumbling and they call it the “proper” way. To that statement, I say this: if you are speaking in a way that the person receiving the linguistic code will assume that you have some kind of speech impediment, it’s not proper…it’s what I would like to call down syndrome. Besides that, they seem like relatively nice chaps so long as one can look past the battlefield that is their dental area. It seems that their teeth are reenacting some part of the War of Independence and, as they did a couple of hundred of years ago, they are losing. The only difference between now and then is that now they are losing all by themselves and not because the French came in to help.
Speaking of frogs—I mean, French—how’s about we see what they have to offer. Paris…The Eiffel Tower…The Louvre…beautiful cityscapes…a romantic language…bla, bla, bla. This is all an elaborate ploy to get into a myriad of easy women’s pants. Whenever they visit another country (like the US, for example), they always say things like, “Hallow…Ei would like to seeee where famus places arr in Amerrica.” And immediately after that statement, women are falling at their feet. Their secret is simple: exaggerate your accent and only talk to women with boyfriends, husbands, fiancé’s, or significant others. This is an excellent approach especially if you wink at that significant other whilst his girlfriend oogles at you. Now, here’s how you fight back! It is a well-known fact that French people have a terrible fear of shaving and cheese that doesn’t have mold on it. Arm yourself with some grade-A American cheese and some sort of a shaving blade. When one confronts the Frenchman, feed it the cheese. It will immediately choke because the cheese actually contains a non pungent flavor. When it is incapacitated, shave it…good regions to remove hair from are usually the heavily forested regions around the armpits or genitals (these areas are ubiquitous for all French and also include women). A common myth is that one should aim for the legs—don’t. They have already taken the liberty of achieving the realm of effeminated metrosexual by waxing them.
Now that we are familiar with the most famous Europeans, how’s about we move on to the Greeks and Italians? Well, they have been grouped into one because they possess many of the same characteristics: white skin, muscular build, long and flowing hair, and a musky odor that could put a bison down. If ever there was a form of euthanasia that was humane, this would be it, for as the woman stares at Paolo Rotini in awe, she slowly inhales the toxin and proceeds to die a slow, enamored death. Even though they had some of the greatest civilizations known to man (the Greeks and the Romans), I think they have milked that pot for all its worth. It’s about time to stop standing there and looking pretty like the buildings that fill the cities.
Last but not least (of the biggest and most well-known Europeans) are the Germans. They killed a bunch of people…so let’s mention it and get it out of the way. Apart from that, their most defining characteristic is that they speak as though they were about to commit some sort of horrible murderous act (all of them) and they have notoriously more hair than the French (mostly just women). Apart from the fact that they can crush a human being with their pinky, they are relatively peaceable-looking people until they open their mouths and one of two things happens: either they sound incredibly threatening or incredibly gay. This is because their voices come in a “manly” setting and in a “prepubescent boy” setting. When German is spoken in the former, it sounds like they tear small animals to bits for sport; if German is spoken in the latter, it sounds as if their anus is too accepting. Their women are no exception to this rule. They are all hairy and possess the name Olga (I’m hereby assuming that Russians don’t exist and are just fake Germans). Their powers far supersede those of the males because they are incredibly muscular and might as well possess a penis themselves.
After examining the European’s top ethnicities, what are the thoughts? Maybe the French aren’t so romantic and just feed you random food that they say has something special in it. Maybe the British are so pompous that they think they can steal our women with a simple “Ellow.” Maybe the Italians think they can row a boat and point out how beautiful one of their cities is even though it was one of the many stupid moves on their part because it is now sinking. Maybe the kilt is actually just a glorified skirt that a gay guy made into a tradition to get back to the straight community. Maybe the Netherlands and Belgium shouldn’t have pretty dikes that prevent their country from being flooded and finally erased off of the map. And maybe, just maybe, Switzerland should not even exist. I believe all of these are ploys they use to pretend to be more than they really are. This is the truth. I’m sure there might be a European right now reading this going: “Damn…this guy knows too much. We must rethink our strategies now!” All in all, one phrase sums up basically everything—“Ugh…Europeans…”
Friday, November 27, 2009
The first group of fine aliens that we will be talking about will be the ever present commies—I mean—Asians. What do people see when they lay their gaze on one of Asian descent? Well, I’ll tell you: they see a very uptight, yellow, perfect-hair-forever bowl-cut, staring-straight-at-the-sun eyed, short, and probably not very well endowed specimen. That about covers it, wouldn’t you agree? The good thing is that while you are busy eyeing the Asian, he can barely see you (that’s an Asian eye joke). Now that we are done with the preliminary scan of the person, we can examine the types of Asians that exist: Old Asians, Teen (girl) Asians, “Cool” (guy) Asians, Businasians, and Tourasians.
We shall begin with Old Asians, since these are the ones most commonly seen around quintessential areas like Chinatown (Which includes all Asians in its confines—Japanese, Korean, Chinese, Indonesian, and all the other places too. Who would’ve guessed that “China” was a cumulative and all-inclusive term for all people that like rice and have flat noses?). These people will commonly walk at a negative mph pace and be so scrunchy, their skin could be confused for a sun-dried prune. The interesting part about them is that they will mostly do 3 things for the rest of their aging life: mutter incoherently in a sub decibel frequency that only other kin understand, stand in a corner smiling and nodding at everything one says, or making noodles (predominantly the latter). For some reason, there is never a gray area between young and old in the Asian community—one day, the person is young, and the next, they look as though they have been marinating in water for a couple of years. I suspect that the transition involves some sort of secret Asian metamorphoses/transmogrification. Their genes have somehow been encoded to “hold their breath” per-say till about the age of 40. After that age, the genes just give up and the body rapidly ages overnight to the point where no teeth are left and range of motion is compromised.
The Teen Asians are probably the most recognized around the world. Whether it is screaming in a high pitched voice, always being dressed in school apparel, wearing ponytails, possessing skirts that barely hide anything, or being in porn, Teen Asians are everywhere. Basically, they can be summed up in one statement: a pedophile’s dream. This is so because they will look exactly like they do when they are about 15 till the age of 35 or 40. They usually have rockin’ bods, but the face is at most “paper bag” material. Telltale signs that a pack of Teen Asians is around are: old, bald men looking in one direction, squealing in a foreign language (This foreign language is not to be confused with the foreign language known as “woman” which includes within itself the dialect “shoes” and the secondary dialect “make-up”, even though the Teen Asians have been known to speak it), or Tamagotchi and Cell Phone sounds.
“Cool” Asians is a term that is synonymous and can be used interchangeably with all of the Asian characters in The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift. These guys can be found leaning against walls or smoking next to their cars, and will commonly possess hair a-la Edward Cullen…aka unkempt, nasty, just like anime characters, spiky, held up against the laws of physics, etc. These types of Asians for some reason think they are a force to be reckoned with or that they are like Al Capone or possess some level of “gangster” in them. The truth is that they are none of the above and people laugh at them for thinking that way. They are unimposing and not frightening at all…if they wanted to be gangsters, they made the mistake of being born Asian.
Businasians and Tourasians are how Asians are portrayed in many a TV series and are based off of real people, believe it or not. These two types of Asians are spotted frequently in the airport. The Businasians (A mix of Business and Asian) are the ones that are usually seen wearing full business formal attire while traveling, even if they are sitting in coach. For some reason, they deem it necessary to be perceived as pompous asses wherever they set foot and will frequently sit by themselves in coffee shops and pretend to look busy. It is suspected that most of them speak in a deep voice and carry a gong in their carry-on luggage. Tourasians, on the other hand, are the exact opposite. They will readily wear anything that is casual whether it matches or not. The man will wear shorts and the woman will wear the same pair of shorts to match him, except hers will be worn at what most would consider an uncomfortably high level. They will be seen wearing an exorbitant amount of sun-block and be carrying what appears to be an uncomfortable weight-load in the form of four backpacks. Notice how they scream excitedly at every building they see and will almost certainly be either looking up or pointing at something when they are spotted by the general public.
The Asians are truly an exciting alien to examine. Whether they be crazy mutterers, squinters, business fakers, or crazy tourists, they are fun to spot and even more fun to make fun of. When you see one, please bring honor this blog and take your fingers, place them in your eyes, and pull them apart like one of them…and if you own a straw hat, then would be the perfect time to use it to its full potential.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
I figured it would be too hard to isolate each and every country and explore it, so I have conveniently decided to separate the foreigners into classes or groups. This might be a gross generalization of “every” race, but it’s ok for my studies for now. The generalized groups that will be spoken of will include Asians, Europeans, Africans, Latinos, and, in all respects to racial fairness, Americans. These blogs will assume that the people being talked about are foreigners to a different country and it is what other people see in them. In other words—stereotypes. But, as always, among the bad, there will be good things that will be mentioned about the foreigners (except Americans).
Now, I know that this might be insulting to…well…all of you, but that is why I’m doing it. I believe that it is good to laugh at oneself for a change. So no matter where you come from—Asia (where you get wrinkles from your twenties), Europe (where you smell as bad as wet dog), Africa (where you probably have some kind of worm living inside of you), Latin America (where we have many babies and sell cocaine), or even America (where you are morbidly obese)—I now invite you to read my next blogs and laugh. It is the best kind of medicine and God knows that no race is perfect…so stop believing you are superior or better (it’s not true); and for all of you who still think this way…well, you’re in for a rude awakening…
Thursday, July 30, 2009
What was originally a small outbreak in April has overtaken the world in a year. Those damn Mexicans. They just couldn’t keep away from the pigs could they? Yes, our next topic is the infamous Swine Flu. There are many misconceptions and mixed ideas about this pandemic that need to be brought to light. Many people know, but few people truly understand the H1N1 strain that has come to be known as the Swine Flu. If I may be allowed to be frank, some people are just idiots. There is one topic in which all idiots seem to agree and congregate—transmission. Everyone is under the delusion that random objects that fight other diseases can somehow magically help this one. These people are truly daft and should go back to school…or at least have someone give them a good knock on the head.
First, let’s ponder on the idea of an outbreak. Whenever we witness some kind of disease ransacking any community, we usually observe a myriad of people wearing…masks. This really simple apparatus uses many small, interwoven layers of thread made of multiple materials to protect against disease. What many people don’t ask themselves is what kind of disease. Masks are used to prevent the inhalation of bacteria and other large particles. What is swine flu? Is it a bacteria? Is it a large particle? NO. It is a virus. Guess what, people? Viruses go through masks. In technical terms, the viruses we are talking about are about 10-20 nanometers across or about 100 times smaller than the average bacteria. Ergo, anyone buying masks for protection against the Swine Flu is just wasting time and money for nothing. The only thing that masks might be good for is when a subject already has the virus and is trying to keep snot, mucus, etc., in. But the point still stands that no matter how much one keeps in, the virus will still get out. Go outside, breathe fresh air, and walk around…when you see people with masks, just point and laugh at their innocence. It’s cute, really. They might as well not have a mask on in the first place.
Secondly, as people attempt to cope with the spread of a disease, the population in general searches for an answer. While everyone knows that the way to stop viruses in general is through the beauty of inoculation (except conspiracy theorists and Mormons among others) and that as soon as a viral outbreak is detected, a vaccine program is kicked into high gear, there are still people that attempt to discover remedies of their own. This whole section will be devoted to the most outlandish and hilarious attempt of a remedy I’ve heard for the Swine Flu—antibacterial. Now, I could simply state that antibacterial has the word bacterial in it. This in itself should lead a normally cognizant human being with an average sized brain to deduce that it must target specifically bacteria. But it wouldn’t be so funny unless I poked more at these people. My hypothesis is this: people that use antibacterial to fight off a virus have a brain the size of an Inuit’s nipple. It is the household equivalent of using water to clean oil. Just because water cleans, doesn’t mean it cleans oil. Antibacterial equals bacteria. Antiviral equals virus. Antibacterial plus virus equals low IQ. What should be done is to put people that have committed this atrocity through preschool again. That way, they will entertain their minds with the simple objective of not getting the triangle shape into the square or circle, and the world will rid itself of yet another step back in the evolutionary chain.
Lastly, there is the case of the hand washing. Even though it states everywhere that one should wash hands every chance one gets, I have a qualm. If one were to touch an infected area in, say, a guardrail in a staircase, all one has to do is wash one’s hands with soap and water and the virus will be destroyed. I agree. But, what happens if immediately afterwards, one touches the shirt or pants…or the wallet…or the phone? Isn’t the virus transferred there too? That means that even though a person might have killed the virus with the soap and water, all he/she has to do is touch the same section of clothing that they touched before washing their hands to get infected again. Additionally, knowing that the virus will remain alive and active for a couple of days gives multiple chances for infection. Does this not make the washing hands idea moot? The only way that you could be completely sure you aren’t contaminated is to burn all of your possessions in a massive prevention bonfire as you walk through your door to your house. This includes apparel, glasses, masks, phones, wallets, credit cards, money, etc. Afterwards, and just for good measure, you would take a long disinfecting shower. Seems like a lot of work to not get sick…even if you’re already not sick.
Swine Flu has wreaked havoc on the populace of this majestic blue and green orb in space. Everyone has become so preoccupied with prevention that we have allowed panic to unfold, which almost always leads to stupidity. The uneasy should breathe a collective sigh of relief after reading this blog…either that or become even more paranoid. Masks don’t work, I won’t even mention antibacterials, and washing hands is a moot point. There are other, true ways to combat the virus: bleach, alcohol, and baths, among other things. The point is, do not freak out and get scared. The virus isn’t airborne so there is no need to shoot everyone that coughs or maintain children under house arrest. H1N1 dies about 3 feet from the person that is sick (when they sneeze or cough into the air) and can only be transmitted for about 3-5 days after a person has shown symptoms. Overall, Swine Flu is just simply another flu. Everyone has had one in their lives. It sucks, but we move on. How’s about we stop yapping and moaning about how sick we are and how much we hate pigs and focus on other things so we can all stop being ignorant buffoons? Good.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Once again, I find myself 35,000 feet in the air in the midst of a muse. I have come to realize that airplanes are alwys the host to a certain type of person that could be considered morally reprehensible. These outlaws think they can use and abuse the laws of flight. Tricking the flight attendant, disobeying rules, and just outright annoyances that make them worthy of a big slap in the face. We all know them; we've all seen them. If you don't know one...it's you. Welcome to the world of the airplane bandidos.
You are in your seat looking out the window, buckled up, and waiting for the airplane to start moving. As your gaze shifts, you notice a person sitting on the other side of the aisle, texting on their phone. Didn't they ask a while back to shut off electronic devices? A flight attendant walks up the aisle, looking from side to side, checking for electronics. The person notices and quickly hides it under something. As soon as the imminent danger has passed, the person takes it out and continues...all throughout the flight. It kills you. Yet you don't speak out. There are rules for a reason and these people seem to figure themselves a regular John Dillinger—above the law. The truth is, they are not. Now, I recently discovered a technique to defeat these perpetrators. There is a button over one's head that one can press to get backup. It is somewhat like a police radio on an airpline. It calls the flight attendants—the cavalry. Soon the women and gay men of the flight attendant ranks assemble around your seat. Point at the outlaw and let them destroy him. You just flight attended his ass. Congratulations.
Next up is the people that really rile one up—the seat takers. You walk into a plane and approach your seat...but wait, it's taken. In it sits a person that will give you hell for at least 5 minutes (it's especially bad if it's a child, because then the mother pounces). You can fight all you want, but the person will assert his/her dominance over that seat. They will oftentimes pretend not to have their ticket and, even if you show them yours, they will still not be convinced without some other sort of evidence. It's like fighting about religion. They have faith that that's their chair...even if it's not and they are wrong. Soon, the plane gets backed up because one has to involve the flight attendants. Then, the fake voice of disgruntled acceptance takes over: "Oh! My ticket said 34D, not 35D! I'm so sorry." there is no solution to people like this. They are like people at stores that back up lines...you just have to deal with them.
Now, I will clear the air with a more humorous outlaw: the walker. The airplane is ascending into the clouds, but has not reached cruising altitude. The "fasten seatbelt" sign is still on but you hear a bit of commotion. Up in front of you, someone just realized their bladder is about to burst and has to go to the restroom. Now, if anyone has seen a giraffe or a horse newborn that doesn't know how to walk and is always falling in the most amusing yet cute ways, you will see the smilarities with these walkers. Since the plane is taking off, there is turbulence and that makes the floor unstable, thus, the person walking reverts to the early stages of life when he could barely walk on his own. In his present state (not being an actual baby), though, he gets no help from peers. It is like a full grown Bambi just prances by one's seat, hitting chairs and realizing that overhead compartments don't make very good supports. The flight attendants just sadly shake their heads. There's always at least one. Maybe the pilot will get mad and castigate them. Whatever happens, the rest of the plane enjoys the comedy. It's great to have people to laugh at.
Even though some airplane bandidos might be funny, they should be considered a serious threat. If a plane has bad turbulence, who is to blame but the man texting on his phone. After watching Soul Plane, I'd believe that. The people that take your seat are no less at fault. They not only bother you, but also everyone around you to the point that you actually start wishing that you could drop them from the sky at 40,000 feet. The walker is different. Even though he is, quite frankly, hilarious, he becomes like a big, fat, giggly blunt object that might cause trauma if he comes into contact with somebody's skull. The fact of the matter is, airplane bandidos believe they have too much power and they should be taught a lesson. All we need is a private police force for hire that can be installed in every plane to keep the peace. Law & Order: Airplane Passengers Unit...yeah...