Thread by @HoarseWisperer

I’m on a plane full of disgruntled WiFi-less passengers after the flight attendants announced it wouldn’t be available inflight.

I got in.

I’m not telling anyone.

Enjoy the flying hell that is small talk with the people next to you, suckers.

I’m just tweeting. because. I. can.

Take THAT, Mr. 26E!

Next time, don’t tell every flight attendant how awful it is that Delta has failed you three times this week.

I’m tweeting about you.

You’re 1,500 miles from seeing it.

I think I’m going to tell him as we’re getting off.

“Sooo, Mr. 26E... sounds like you’ve been having a rough travel week.”

“OMG. Yes!! Did I men-“

“Endlessly. B-T-Dubs, the WiFi worked just fine. Ya shoulda tried connecting. Hashtag LOL. Hashtag bye.”

Then I’m going to laugh too loud and say I was streaming sh** in hi-def because nobody else was clogging up the bandwidth.

“I STREAMED 11 MOVIES! BITE IT!”

I’m kidding. I won’t do any of that.

Oh, but I will most certainly stare at 26E at the baggage carousel with one smug-a** look on my face.

That you can take to the bank.

Or, if you had WiFi, you could simply deposit it online from the convenience of your aisle seat.

The moral of the story is that sometimes there are inconveniences in life that must simply be taken in stride because life isn’t perfect and that which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.

“Your attitude determines your altitude.” I always say.

I’m kidding again. I never say that.

I mean, it was most certainly not my attitude that spurred Captain Pete to take this 737-800 up to a cruising altitude of 36,200 feet.

My attitude is barely good enough for crop-dusting. Light sightseeing.

This was clearly not my work.

The real moral of the story is that commercial travel is like being stuffed in a flying Coors cans with all the people from work you wouldn’t want to have a drink with.

Yes, that’s the moral. Flying Coors can. Hal from Accounting. Patricia from Office Services. Drinking.

Hal will likely take his shoes off. The odds of their being a foot odor problem are quite high.

Patricia will likely need to access the overhead bin and/or restroom at least once per state crossed, so... let’s say 12 times.

I’m digressing here. The real protagonist is Mr. 26E.

Note: yes, I know that should have been “there” not “their” above.

When you reach 30,000 feet you’re in International Grammar Airspace.

There’s no need to correct typos.

That’s a fact. It’s in the Constitution.

I just did some cursory surveillance of the situation in Row 26.

26E looks quite morose.

He moved over to 26F thanks to an empty seat and now appears to be staring wistfully out at Kansas.

He has also made quite the mess. He’s quite untidy.

I will hold this against him too.

For convenience, I’m going to continue calling our protagonist Mr. 26E. It just feels right.

He is by no means a window seat on the commercial flight of life.

Did I mention the untidiness? It looks like a badger got into a garbage bag back there.

I mean, the flight attendant quite clearly discussed 26E’s responsibilities as a resident of an exit row.

It’s like the guy isn’t even THINKING about that. Devil may care. Laissez faire.

If we belly land in a cornfield, why must I cross your little landfill to get on the slide?

Clean up after yourself, man. You’ve been on this plane for like two hours and your seat area looks like Time Square an hour after the ball dropped.

Where did he even get that much trash?

No home training, Mr. 26E.

No. Home. Training.

Used utensils. On the seat. Come on, man. That’s just some Grade A slob stuff right there.

Do you think Stephanie and Rick, our Seattle-based flight crew, want to be cleaning up that mess?

Oh, he’s definitely a seat-back stuffed. You just know that. I can feel it in me bones.

Mr. 26E is absolutely going to stuff all that crap in his seat-back as if it was some kind of magic pocket where trash is whisked away by flying unicorns in tasteful Delta uniforms.

I guess those would be Pegasuses. Pegasi? Multiple Pegasus. Whatever.

I’m going to do a little recon.

This profile feels incomplete.

I’m going to quite casually saunter to the rear of the cabin to “use the restroom” all the while taking a complete inventory of 26E’s characteristics and features.

This is CIA-sh** right here. Air spying!

Okay, phew... that was a close one.

I had nearly completed my exhaustive scan of Mr. 26E as he slumbered, head back, mouth agape.

I would’ve been able to give a complete cavity/filling count but then the subject stirred.

“The subject” is what we call 26E’s at Langley. CIA HQ.

I was able to ascertain this much: the subject is a male in his mid-to-late 30’s with a haircut suggestive of a local barbershop with an emphasis on getting in and out quickly.

Doesn’t wait for Angelo even though everyone knows Angelo is the good one.

No, he puts down “any” on the waiting list and then Russian Roulette’s it knowing full well Leo’s hands are shaky and his cuts make your hair look angry.

Navy blue polo.

Likely a blend.

I detected no evidence of moisture-wicking fabric.

Questionable choice given the heat on one end of this flight and the humidity on the other.

The subject has now fallen asleep again.

The scan can now be completed...

...and I’m back.

Mr. 26E appears to be clad in the kind of chino common to suburban males typically encountered in office park settings.

Wrinkle-free fabric with the telltale slightly exaggerated perma-crease.

Sensible, durable, office worker camo.

Available in 64 colors. All of them are a beigey-tan.

The plane was just wracked w turbulence yet the subject didn’t stir.

I find this quite telling.

One is not that tired on the outbound leg of a business trip.

No, that’s the kinda tired you get after tradeshowing it for three days on the other coast.

Mr. 26E is a West Coaster.

I must now refresh my spy supplies before continuing on with the tedious field work of my trade.

I shall return after having successfully procured additional beer.

Okay, my supply run suffered a setback.

Turns out Stephanie and Rick take the ‘fasten seatbelts’ sign quite seriously.

I tried to convey the urgency of my mission but was thoroughly rebuffed.

Such are the obstacles sky operatives face everyday.

That was a stinging setback.

I’m quite thirsty.

I had already begun to pre-enjoy my next beverage.

Oh, and here comes the Cappy on the squawkbox with “a little reminder that the ‘fasten seatbelts’ sign is lit.

Oh, I know the game, El Capitan. This isn’t my first flying rodeo (which I pronounce as row-day-oh in my head).

Stephanie dropped a dime on me to the big hats in the front room.

Now Cappy’s throwin’ a little air shade to keep me buckled in and compliant like an air sheep.

Well, ya know what... Oh, I’ll remain seated but my seatbelt isn’t even CLOSE to snugly fastened around my waist.

Ha! Take THAT!

And my tray table isn’t even in the upright position!

ANARCHY!

I’m now consumed by the thought of forbidden beer.

We haven’t hit so much as a bump in several hundred miles.

I’m beginning to suspect the alleged ‘turbulence’ concern is actually a deep state plot to keep from obtaining the can of Heineken so crucial to my work.

Well, two can play this game.

If Mr. 26E is still asleep, I’m going to press his call button and then patiently wait for Rick or Stephanie...

Then, I’ll ingratiate myself by pointing to 26E’s piggish collection of garbage and giving a disgusted look and slow head-shake.

Then, just as they reach full appreciation of my air-solidarity, I’ll pivot to a polite entreaty for a beer if it isn’t too much trouble.

This plan is foolproof.

Amateurs give up the mission. Professionals improvise.

Jesus H. Christmas Carols.

Mr. 26E is awake. He is the bane of my existence, this one.

This is going in his permanent file.

Oh, terrific. Now we’ll allegedly be beginning our initial descent shortly.

Likely story. More air lies perpetrated to thwart my quest.

Waaaaait. Stephanie and Rick just rushed up the aisle with the beverage cart.

Rick is working the back of the cart and is already servicing Sector Zero-Niner.

That’s spy talk for Row 9.

I am positively jubilant.

I’m so happy, I might even buy Mr. 26E a beer... for surveillance purposes, of course.

No, that I shall not do.

The man has made a mockery of civil aviation. I won’t reward his slovenliness.

You cost yourself a beverage, my man. May that lesson be a clarion call to change.

I’ve triangulated Rick’s location.

He is a mere 5 rows away.

I’ve noted very few reaches down into the bottom drawer where my long-awaited beer sits.

This bodes well for the availability of my choice.

I might even mix it up. Live a little. Throw caution to the wind.

And. There. It. Is.

A delightful Belgian-style white with notes of orange and coriander.

I knew you’d come through, Rick. You’re good people.

On that note, it’s time for spy signoff.

I’ve got just enough time to drink this beer while side-eying Mr. 26E until we land.

I’ll provide baggage claim updates if my post-flight recon produces additional intelligence.

So, we get off the plane. My friend (who was sitting too far away from to talk to inflight) meets me outside the plane.

Him: “You hear the guy in 26E?! Could that guy have complained more?”

Me: “Oh, I’m familiar.”