Airplanes? Fuck.

I had the occasion as of late to take an airplane to and from our national western coast. I could say and talk a lot about the city of Los Angeles but that is for another blogging at another time and place. Right now what I want to blogging about is the airplane ride.

First, to parachute a great American comedy: What is the deal with airplane peanuts? I say this because they lack a hard shell and I am reduced to spitting the plastic wrapper on the floor, which then attracted the attention of a stewardess. She said to me "Sir I am going to have to ask you to not spit those wrappers on the floor." I thought maybe she liked me so I asked her if she wanted to go to the bathroom and join a certain special club. But it turns out she did not like Mickey Mouse and wasn't even sure if they still had a functioning club, so my advances were scurned!

I will make a long story less long now. These airlines really fucked with me. After bringing me off the plane after an amergency landing after some unkind words and gropings with the stewardesseses, they told me of the harsh penalty the were going to grant me. I said "Put me on what ever list you like, fuckers! I'm putting you on my "do not FUCK WITH GREG list! Oh wait, you just violated that, ex post facto!"

Now comes the dilemma to end all quandaries. How do I make the airlines find out? If you recall from previous blogging postings, I am very patriotic and I will not do a terrorism on the airplanes. But I have to make them find out somehow, as they most certainly did a fuck with me.

How about you, gentle reader? How would you make them find out without killing and terrur? Please bear in mind as you answer that I am now not allowed on an airplane or within 1500 feet of an airport or female airline employee.