Dear Airline Industry

Dear Airline Industry,

You've got it all wrong. Let me fix it for you. Please enact my suggestions below:

1. First of all, I understand that Mr. and Mrs. Moniesworthington in first class need to board the plane first and not with the rest of us peasants, but why put them at the front of the plane? First class should be in the back of the plane. It's quieter, and out of the way of everyone else trying to board after them. Then, after Buffy and Muffy have their cosmo-tinis and are settled into their leather recliners with headphones and hot towels, board the rest of the plane from the back to the front. Do you see how that works? So that as people are boarding, there aren't people blocking them in the aisle, struggling to fit their 49.5 lb bags into an oversmall overhead bin because we are all trying to avoid your inane baggage fees, which brings us to point 2.
2. $25 per bag? Really? That's the best you could come up with to offset your Federal Defecit-like budget? $2 for peanuts? $5 for an old, smooshed pb&j sandwich? What spawn of imbreeding came up with your fiscal plan? Here's some pointers on charging fees.
• Sell drugs on the plane. Do you know how uncomfortable it is to fly? Of course you do. Sell us some vicodin for God's sakes. Lace it with percocet and xanax. Children's sizes too. Have us  passed out, mellowed out, and drugged out all the way to L.A. Your flight attendants will thank you for it.
• Sell Sleeping Kits. I would happily give you $5 for a REAL pillow, blanket, and earplugs. When I say real, I mean a blanket that isn't the standard issue  2' x 2' sandpaper tarp handed out at homeless shelters. And when I say real pillow I mean a standard size pillow, stuffed with soft material, not the ipod sized 'pillow' stuffed with mothballs and covered with a hospital gown that you're so fond of doling out. Lastly, non-recycled earplugs to block out little Bethany's tantrum after she drops her juice box and wants the whole plane to know that life isn't fair.
• Show good movies. Wild Hogs? Bridge to Terabithia? Ice Castles? Are you serious? Show something that wasn't made in Disney's sub-basement. Something not cramming family values down our throats. You're wasting your time. Most of us are drunk, high, plotting ways to brutally murder the child kicking our seat behind us, or in the midst of the mile high club to make the flight tolerable. How about something by Mel Brooks? Or something akin to Waiting for Guffman? What's wrong with Saw V? Some quality porn? No need for the kinky stuff since kids are around. Just an assortment of Debbie Does Dallas, Debbie Does Debbie, and Donnie Does Donnie. Personal lubricant anyone? Cha-ching!
3. Why in the name of all that is holy do you overbook for your flights? So that you can overcrowd the gate area with 50 people on standby and make us listen to repeated announcements asking us to give up our seats for a box of Cracker Jacks and some good karma? Get bent. There is nothing you could offer me that will make me stay in your hellish airport any longer than I have to. Maybe if the seats were comfortable, the price of everything wasn't exhorbitant, and there were some stores and restaurants of any interest. Another detriment is lugging suitcases and bags anywhere you go. Do you know how hard it is to use a urinal with a bag over your shoulder and holding onto a suitcase? Or cramming it all into a bathroom stall?
4. Those beeping golf carts full of old people in the airports have got to go. They are a menace. At least give them their own lane instead of plowing through pedestrians like some sick game of Red Rover.
5. There seems to be a problem with ground traffic. Instead of sitting on the runway for 30 minutes, maybe you should think about adding a 2nd runway.
6. What is this "Don't worry folks, despite our late departure we can 'make up time in the air'" business? If you can go faster, just go fast to start with! What could possibly be the reason for going slower in the air? Trying to sell an extra lunch box or two? Do you enjoy torturing your customers? Because that's what air travel is. It's dry, stuffy, cramped, loud, ear-popping, the temperature is never quite right, and it's impossible to sleep. I think that instead of having prisons, we should keep criminals on planes. They'll be out of the way, and constantly punished. There's nothing to do in a plane but think about what you've done. They can't smoke, recline, sleep, use electronic devices, have anything sharp or over 3 fluid ounces, or eat anything that wasn't made by Quaker, Kraft, or Capri-Sun. Prisoner not behaving? Throw them into the cargo bin below the plane. Prisoner wants something to read? Sky Mall Magazine. Prisoner feeling ill? Children's aspirin and a vomit bag. Prison break? Nowhere to go at 30,000 feet—bon voyage!

So, in closing, if you would simply sell prescription drugs on the plane, sleep-aids, adult entertainment, rent your planes to the Incarceration Industry, and improve every facet of your day to day operations, you just might stay in business.

Sincerely,

A recent passenger who managed to get through TSA with a bottle of mace on his keychain but had his snowglobe confiscated.

To the neighbors downstairs

Dear downstairs neighbors,

Did you enjoy my little show? Clearly you did because none of you will let me forget it. Every time I step out onto my porch and one of you is outside, I can see you chuckle. Well, I'd like the opportunity to explain my side of the events that took place that day. Here goes:

That morning before work I noticed several house flies in my kitchen. Harmless enough, they were buzzing around my screen door which opens out onto the porch—the very porch that overlooks your yard. There is a small hole in the screen and they must have flown in pursuing leftovers from last night. I tidied the kitchen up, swatted the flies I could see with a magazine, and went on my way to work.

It was a very hot, humid, July day. Walking home from the train station that evening, I worked up quite a sweat. After I got in the door, I went straight for the refrigerator to get a can of soda. Popping the can, I began to guzzle it down standing right in front of the fridge. Savoring the sweet chemical taste of my diet cherry Pepsi, it wasn't until I was almost finished with the can that I heard it. The sound of...a swarm of bees. A sound you might hear on National Geographic or on a horror film after the hero discovers a basement full of fly-ridden cadavers. Not a sound that should be in my kitchen. Slowly...so slowly...I turned around to face the rest of the room.

To my complete horror, hundreds of flies were amassed around every light source in the room—the screen door, the window screen, and the overhead light. Swarming, teeming, buzzing, big, fat, hairy house flies had completely taken over my kitchen. I dropped my soda on the floor, ran down the hallway to my room, and slammed the door behind me. In a panic I whipped out my cell phone and made a desperate call to my landlord. Voicemail. I left my Korean landlord who barely speaks english a 5 minute message about the state of my kitchen—comparing it to the Amityville Horror in between stifled sobs and sniffles. I doubted if he would understand one in 10 words.

Trapped in my bedroom, I had to come up with a course of action. I refused to be quarantined. There was still dinner to be had. Alas, I had nothing to kill them with. Running around with a magazine swatting solitary flies simply wouldn't do. What if they gang up and attack me at once? I'd be completely overwhelmed. I pictured a cloud of flies swarming all over me, touching me with their hairy, prickly feet that had no doubt been sitting in dog shit the day before. I'd heard that when a house fly lands on a surface they immediately vomit...something about emptying their stomach contents to discern if something is edible or not. I don't know. Maybe it's true. Maybe its not. All I know is that I was not about to get ralphed on by hundreds of flies. I had to get them out of the house. I had to open the kitchen window and porch door and set them all free. But, I had to do it without them all touching me.

So, I did what any sane person would have done. I donned the comforter off of my bed, wrapped it tightly around myself in the middle of July, put on a pair of slippers and winter gloves, and prepared for battle. Ingenious. Feeling my way back out the bedroom door and down the hallway was easy. As I got closer, the humming got louder. My knees started to wobble, but I would not be deterred. I continued creeping towards the kitchen.

Window first. I steeled myself and edged towards the window sill. Gloved hands felt their way to the window screen. The buzzing and humming was so loud...I can still hear it today. Blindly I searched for the two push buttons that would unlock the screen and allow me to push it upwards. My thick winter gloves were detrimental to my dexterity. For what seemed like hours I fumbled with the screen. Oh God. I can't do this in gloves. Panic started to rise. I'll just have to open the screen door instead. Abandoning the window, I felt my way towards the screen door. Flies continued to dive bomb my head through the blanket. It felt like heavy rain drops. Suddenly my feet felt wet through my slippers. Jesus Christ what's wet? What could possibly be wet? Did flies get through a hole in my slippers? Is it fly guts? Are they vomiting all over my feet? Trepidation took over and I just bolted towards the screen door. All caution was abandoned entirely.

Out the door I burst with a huge bang, spilling out onto the porch wrapped in a disheveled blanket, gloves, and slippers. A horde of flies followed me, some escaping into the sky, some tangled in my blanket alongside me. I could feel them all over, making skin contact, and started shrieking, flailing, and weeping. Struggling for several minutes I threw my gloves off and kicked the fly-ridden blanket to the porch floor. Then I saw it.

Imagine my surprise to see you were having a family cook-out in your backyard. Parents, grandparents, children, and even your little dog Rusty were all staring up at me. Silent. Mouths agape. The only sound was my heavy breathing. The children were the first to laugh. Then you laughed. Then your parents laughed. Rusty seemed to howl with delight.

With quiet calm and dignity I picked up my belongings and retreated back inside. I proceeded to scrub my entire apartment floor to ceiling with bleach, including the spilled soda all over the floor (which was not in fact fly guts or vomit). Sure, all trace of flies would be gone, but the laughter and embarrassment remained.

Late into the night I scrubbed and cleaned. Around 11:00 I flopped into bed, exhausted and hoping that tomorrow this would all seem like a bad dream. At midnight my landlord showed up.

The next morning when I took a cup of tea outside onto my porch and started watering some potted plants, your children ran outside and started playing tag. When they saw me up above they immediately stopped and started wiggling and dancing around in circles, all the while shrieking and laughing. Indignant, I took my tea inside.

Days have gone by and both you and your children continue to mock me. If you were being savaged by flies, I think you would have had the same reaction, no? I just want to use my porch in peace and put this ugliness behind me.

The other day when I had a friend over, we sat outside for a bit. Then your kids came running out playing Captain Hook. Once again, as soon as they spotted me they stopped what they were doing and started flailing around and screaming again.

"What's wrong with them?" Asks my friend.

"Turrets." I reply, and usher him back inside.

So, as you can see, there is a perfectly good explanation why your crazy neighbor was out on his porch in a blanket and winter garb fighting with phantoms in July. If you continue to mock me in my own backyard...well...let's just say I know where you live. Pass the message onto your little darlings.

108 Bus

To the MBTA #108 bus driver,

You did more than simply whizz past me this morning as I was waiting at the bus stop—you started a war.

I could perhaps let it slide if you didn't see me standing there in the sweltering heat, melting on the sidewalk infront of you. But, you did see me. I saw you. I saw you see me. I saw your brain fail and decide to proceed ahead, directly to a red light. You didn't think I'd chase you to the intersection, did you? Hah! These chubby legs can fly when motivated, can't they? I was banging on your door before you could say 'soap' you filthy derelict.

Very clever of you to again pretend not to see me, banging and howling at your bus door. You countered this by donning a pair of headphones. Is that even legal while driving a bus? I don't know, but you damn well better be sure that I'm going to find out! A solid 30-seconds I must have been clawing at your door like a rabid spider monkey. You're damn lucky the light turned green and you were able to escape my fists of fury before I started throwing feces at your precious air-conditioned bus, you malcontent.

But ho! Another unexpected turn of events! A gaggle of elementery schoolers crossing infront of you, accompanied by an elderly, chain-smoking crossing guard! I didn't miss a beat before sprinting down the street after you. A starving greyhound with a porterhouse in sight. I saw you looking in your bulbous side-view mirrors at me. You thought I was coming to huff and puff at your door again, didn't you little pig?! Hah! With the cunning of a dolphin I sailed past your vagrant bus and all of its onlookers. I made it to the next crowded bus stop before you even arrived. Didn't count on that, did you? Stop and pick me up along with 10 other people, or leave us ALL behind. I could see the fear in your eyes as you screeched to a halt at the bus stop and saw me in the crowd.

I climbed aboard, chin held high, staring daggers down at your hateful, defeated face. Drinking in every detail of you, from your thinning hair to the coldsore on your lower lip. I took my sweet time swiping my Charlie Card across the scanner. Just look at you grumbling and shaking your head. My, how the mighty hath fallen. I've stormed your castle, boarded your ship, taken your virgin daughter to the prom, and there's nothing you can do about it. Sure, there may be other people on this bus, but really it's just you and me now. You, the captive, and I, the captor. You have to sit there and drive me all the way to the train station. My private chauffeur. My little pet. How does it feel? I bet you wish you'd stopped at the previously designated bus stop when you saw me standing there—sweating like a fetal pig—don't you? Oh look, you're the one starting to sweat now. I can see it on your untamed brow.

Maybe I won't get off at the train station. Maybe I'll just sit here for a while, right behind you, as you drive the same route all day. Keep you company. Continuously hit the 'Stop Request' button and make sure you stop at every god forsaken stop along your route. But no, that won't be necessary. I have a feeling we'll be seeing a lot more of each other.

Sweet dreams Kevin. I'll see you in the morning. 8:42am sharp.