Don’t be afraid to be a real jerk.
Life isn’t all sunshine and rainbows, buddy.
Here’s a piece of self-indulging experience that I do not wish to compromise whilst I have the opportunity, flying First Class.
I’ve been farted on, squashed, rolled over, snored around, asked to move over so that my neighbour can go pee — to realise, it’s worth the upgrade.
I’ve never been thrown off a plane though, thankfully.
Neither have I been asked to vacate a seat because the flight is over-booked.
Because I fly First-Class, bitches.
The last thing I want is your cute monstrosity of a toddler running around doing fucking jumping jacks, whilst poking me as I’m trying to pass out with a moist towel and a comfy blanket over my head.
Fuck off, you little shitbag.
Ofcourse I can’t truly say that, I mean…what kinda person says that to a child.
But really it’s not the children I blame, it’s the parents.
Is it really that difficult for you to tell your child to stop running around like a juvenile on Adderall? I mean someone could get hurt, especially the kid.
But mostly I care about my comfort, can you tell your kid to stop fucking running around?
“Oh isn’t he cute?”
No he’s not, he’s a piece of shit.
Now ofcourse I didn’t actually say that, I mean what kinda person calls a child a piece of shit.
It’s the parents I blame.
I look back, give them a shallow look of sympathy.
“Could you…umm. Maybe…get him to stop…poking me?”
I didn’t pay for first-class to be poked by your baby, you millennial fucks who decided to have a baby in their mid-20s.
“He’s never been on a flight before, he’s just excited. He’ll calm down in a bit.”, says the passive-aggressive douchebag father with his waxed beard and curled up moustache.
Whilst they can’t stop making out, they baby can’t help but pull on my jacket.
“Hey buddy, that thing ain’t cheap. Alright?” — go yank on your daddy’s beard.
Ofcourse I didn’t actually say that, what kinda person says that to a beautiful young child.
He’s just having fun, you know.
It’s his fucking parents, I blame.
The attendant can’t bring this demon down either.
“Just give him a shot of bourbon, that’ll knock the sucker out.”, I telepathically communicate with the frustrated air-attendant still maintaining her humbling smile as she informs me; “I’m Sorry Sir, there’s no other possible seats otherwise I’d have one arranged for you.”
But dear Air-Attendant, it’s not your fault.
If only these two took some parenting classes before they decided to marinate under the sun before unleashing this monstrosity within the first-class cabin.
God, this flight is 8 hours long. Surely this kid will run out of energy eventually.
Oh NO! I was wrong, this kid is on some seriously charged up Red-Bull evolution.
Out of frustration, I took a sneak peek around — all clear, I think to myself.
Ahh I’ll just extend my legs a little bit, and off goes the baby.
Ofcourse I wouldn’t actually ever do that, but I did.
I’m a real jerk.
The kid tripped, fell on its face.
Parents stopped making out.
I threw my blanket over my face and pretended to be asleep.
They cried out, “Oh Jesus, we told you to stop running around”.
NO YOU DIDN’T YOU LIARS! — You were too busy trying to wrap each other into a burrito.
I helped. I made sure your kid learnt the lesson.
Life isn’t all sunshine and rainbows.
Sometimes you deserve a smack in the face.
Sometimes I deserve my comfort.
And sometimes certain people should just not have kids.
Go ahead, judge me.