There oughta be a law

When you're going to be taking a trip across country in the size (and smell) of a tuna can, you try to make the best of it. You pick a seat in the window or the aisle, so you can either slowly freeze your brain against the plastic double pane or do calisthenics before the blood clots form. You may even pick out a vegetarian or low-carb meal, because at least it looks five minutes fresher than the rest of the in-flight meals. Hell, you're just trying to make the best of a dire situation for the next 6-12 hours. You fluff your lavender-scented neck pillow and settle in for the long haul.

Now, why the fuckety-fuck-fuck is it that single people, who have no screaming child or other smelly, noise-pollutin' possession to speak of, get SINGLED out by the flight attendants to switch seats? We're not the ones bammin' the call button 80,000 times or wiping snot on the beverage cart or making eardrums bleed with our high-pitched screams for "JOOOSE!!!"

And yet, we're the ones who are accosted by flight attendants with more ability to inflict guilt than the entire Catholic Diocese, followed in the rear by sad-faced LL Bean catalog cutouts who do their best to convince you that if the entire family doesn't sit together for the next 6 hours, the bond between parent and offspring will be forever broken, and the child will be lost, alone, and probably in San Quentin by age 17.

And where, exactly, is the seat they have to offer? Usually smack-dab in the middle of a 5-across, next to a man who hasn't come to grips with the fact that his ass has exceeded the width of three airplane seats, and a person of foreign descent who hasn't come to grips with the fact that crystals have never, and will ever, prevent body odor. Or, you're placed across from the toilet. That's backed up.

So next time, I aint moving. I don't care if they accuse me of being un-American or put me on the No-Fly list or give me an extra-thorough security screening (old-school style, like Ken's friend.) Me and my Sharper Image Soothing Scents Neck Massage Pillow are staying put, and y'all can kiss my bare-fourth-left-fingered, barren-wombed ass.