No. 120 - Terror From Above

Sure, birds are cute and seemingly harmless, but did you know they're also winged merchants of death?

Don't be fooled by the melodic song of these twitchy little monstrosities. What you're really hearing is a clarion call signaling the end of civilization as we know it.

Is any creature really meant to fly? Probably not. Birds are, at the least, an aberration. How do they stay afloat over the clouds? How can anything poop and fly at the same time?

Can we really trust something that doesn't even have eyelids? We sure wouldn't want to be engaged in a staring contest with them.

We remember our mothers telling us not to touch birds when we were children. "That thing will give you lice," they would tell us. We didn't know whether that was really true, but the lice ended up being transmitted instead in the batting helmets during Little League. Maybe some birds got to those helmets and did God-only-knows what with the bats and balls.

We can handle the lice, or the white droppings on the hoods of our newly waxed IROC-Z Camaros, for that matter. What's truly unforgivable can be summed up in two words: bird flu. Let's set up a bird feeder and invite disease into our homes and our families. Great idea! Why not set up a rat feeder and reintroduce the bubonic plague while we're at it?

Or how about these two words? Airline crashes. That's right, these avaricious aviators have been responsible for many airplane crashes, destroying our plane engines like the little Kamakazi pilots they are, declaring jihad on sensible and efficient travel.

Also, who's looking out for all the helpless worms that get pulled from the comfort of their dirt condos? Where are the animal rights people to avert the senseless slaughter of our slimy, eyeless friends in the ground?

Bottom line: birds are predators. And we must stop them from preying on our fears. There's a reason we compare birds to their dinosaur forebears. Birds are simply circling the sky and waiting for the next earthly disaster. Then they'll laugh at the mayhem from above, cuckling in a pleasantly singsong manner.

No. 178 - Move Your Ass!

When flying the "friendly" skies, it's very easy to understand the motives behind "air rage." Especially when discussing the slow moving flyers we often encounter.

These slow movers aren't a deliberately nefarious species, but through sheer ignorance or arrogance they manage to slow down the flow of every aspect of a flight -- they're like the aerial equivalent of those who drive too slowly in the passing lane.

If we were cavepeople, they would be the first ones left behind as treats for the saber tooth tigers.

It starts at the security screening, when the SMF in question stands there dazed, as if on a permanent thorazine drip, and the line bottlenecks behind him or her, their sluggishness eventually earning them a date with a wand and a body search -- these activities performed with cold, uncaring hands. Then, in the concourse of the airport, the slow mover lingers near the line to give the appearance that they're in line, yet their seat number hasn't been called yet, so they're yet another obstacle to getting quickly and effortlessly to your seat.

When they do enter the plane, the SMF is the one who has a suitcase that's much too big for overhead storage, so as the feeble old man or woman tries hoisting the bag over head, it looks like a baby trying to pick up an elephant. Meanwhile, the line has stopped and is backed up through the tunnel and almost back into the airport. It's the sweatiest traffic jam you'll ever be a part of.

And as the passengers get off of the plane, this slow mover is, without fail, trying half-heartedly to get his or her bag back onto the floor, as the rest of us pack into a line with very little personal space, cramped and grouchy, breathing the rancid sickness emanating from the gaping mouths of the other passengers, and this is mixed with the playground for germs that is the inside of a passenger plane. Ahhh. Smell that? It's like breathing into an old sneaker that your dog's peed on. And we wait. And we keep waiting.

These SMFs are burdensome whichever way you look at it: if they're in the back, they're holding up the boarding process; if they sit up front, they delay the deplaning process. Maybe these slow movers should be stored below with the luggage, or strapped to the wall to be used as a flotation device in case of emergency.

One thing's for certain: if a catastrophic event does go down, these meandering dunces are sure to be the first ones trampled, their bones crunched like a bag of stale airline pretzels.