Upon stepping on to your aircraft and locating your seat next to the 375-pound man who is eyeing up your breakfast bar hanging out of your shirt pocket, you settle in next to a sea of cellulite. The door is slammed shut and the bolt is thrown by a petite blonde flight attendant who woke up at 4:30AM to apply 4 coats of cosmetics to her puss (the one attached to her head). You question her strength to perform such a feat, but you rest easy knowing that the air pressure differential between the outside and inside of the plane will put tons of force on that door to seal it securely. Even the blubber boat next to you couldn’t open that door if there was a train load of Twinkies on the other side. The blonde is only there to activate a switch in the cockpit that tells the hung-over pilots that there is at least one flight attendant aboard. She then proceeds to go into her well-rehearsed mime of pointing out all the safety features that the airplane manufacturer had to install because of multiple deaths that occurred over decades. It’s a learning curve. She smiles and points to the floor to demonstrate the little lights in the floor that’ll show you to an exit should there be a fire onboard. Heading for the light will get you a trip thru burning hell. Without stretched arms and a single extended finger, she now shows you all the exits that exist, a 50 to one ratio. The pilot and copilot have a 2 to 1 ratio. They cost the airlines money; you supply the airlines with a profit. As you eye up your nearest exit, you imagine a crash landing and picture nearly 200 people trying to get out of 4 doors. Throw in some smoke, some screaming, a pinch of panic, and a ferocious fire (the fuel’s on both sides of the cabin), and you have a recipe for charred and cooked customers. Don’t worry, that frenzied fatso next to you will smell the barbecued hoi polloi and will suffocate you in a pillow of sweaty fat long before the flames consume your sorry, dead ass. 

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