TMI at 35,000 feet

Dear Fellow Airline Passenger,

There is a Golden Rule for air travelers: Don’t be crazy. (Followed closely by the Silver Rule: Don’t be stinky.)

Unless you want to disembark in Wichita handcuffed by the Air Marshall, keep your psychosis under wraps.

Of course, there’s lighting the fuse on the bomb in your underwear, and then there’s run of the mill crazy. Neither one is optimal at 35,000 feet.

I am thankful that your kind of crazy tends toward the non-homicidal. So that makes one lucky star for me. (I’m counting.) The rest of my stars are clearly crossed. That is the only way to explain our adjacent seat assignment.

You seem like a perfectly nice–if eccentric–man. Perhaps if we’d met somewhere other than this airborne petri dish of social awkwardness… But alas… All I can do is offer a piece of advice.

There is a way to tell a story that will enthrall your seatmates. And then there’s your approach:

You had me until “boil.” After that, I’m counting the hours to Phoenix.

Never let it be said, however, that I can’t fight fire with fire. You definitely have me out-foxed in the verbal diarrhea category. But I’m developing a little condition of my own: faux-narcolepsy.

What’s that you say? Faking a serious medical problem is crazy? Oh well… At least I smell like roses. One out of two ain’t bad.

Sincerely,
RJ