Fat Stewardesses

I'm sorry -- I mean fat flight attendants. Wouldn't want to offend any gay steward (who are actually quite fit in most cases) by insinuating that he's chosen a woman's career.

By the way, "stewardesses" is the longest word you can type with one hand on the keyboard. Seriously. And this factoid comes from a guy who's done a lot of one-handed typing...

But I digress.

I fly cross country a lot for work. I've clocked nearly 35,000 miles this year alone. I always sit in the aisle because that's where I feel least claustrophobic while sitting on an aeroplane. I know it's no longer "legal" to require employees to achieve certain size and weight standards, but it's getting downright fucking dangerous to ride in the aisle seat of most commercial airlines. The average airline aisle width is approximately 30 inches. The average stewardess' (sorry, flight attendant) ass is 34 inches.

Do the math, people.

I have been jarred out of an engaging book, a GQ article on what kind of cologne I should wear based on my skin's complexion, or a restless nap on the prisoner transport vehicles that pass as passenger jets countless times when one of these swaggering wide-loads comes barrelling down the aisle to remind me that an iPod cannot be in the "on" position during takeoff --

-- Why? They can't supply a reason. They can't tell me why my iPod might undesireably interact with cockpit instruments. Believe me, folks, if an iPod can fuck with the altimeter in a Boeing 757, we have much bigger problems than me listening to Kenna to suppress my urge to kill while on a cross-country flight.

I also love when they tell me to turn the switch off on my iPod. The switch. On my iPod. Which tells me that not only are they completely disconnected with their gym membership, but so, too, are they with commonly available consumer technology.

Final thought: Hey, fatass. If your skill set consists of wearing plastic wings and serving half-cans of Coke (why don't they give you the full can?) while looking for the off switches on iPods, I'd like to let you know that you don't have much to differentiate yourself from competing job applicants. Hop on a treadmill and dial down the Iced Macchiatos, sweetheart. I'm getting tired of getting blasted with Scott Stevens body-checks from your 50 pound caboose while flying on your already-uncomfortable-enough airplane.