PART 1 of Why I will never, ever, ever, evereverevereverever fly with those motherfuckers again

Recently after learning that Jetstar would be ending their routes to Hawaii, I decided to go online and peruse the options still available for Australia travel. Historically much more expensive is the Qantas option, however this flight comes with the luxury of flying straight through to your destination (instead of piggybacking flights and praying), a checked bag, a meal, and some semblance of decent human rights as opposed to making your way to Hawaii via plane, boat, or strong swim technique and then connecting with Australia’s version of Spirit, the ever controversial Jetstar Airlines. Admittedly, I’ve had my problem with Jetstar in the past, but they still stand as the cheapest option to get to Australia on a budget. But as I delved deeper into my options moving forward, I noticed that, per Qantas’ usual bullshit, they weren’t actually Qantas at all. Three of the four flights were being fulfilled by American Airlines, and for me, that’s a real fucking problem.

You see, my beef with American Airlines started back in 2021, when all the airlines were basically doing whatever the fuck they wanted and the federal government was paying for it (not that that’s any different than today). That’s fine. Bureaucracy, I get it. I’d caught a gem of a fare flying into Barcelona for $248. How did I do this? I don’t know. I find myself scanning flights from time to time looking for a deal and this fare sale was 48 hours. It was a can’t miss deal so I booked it. I’d just flown with Condor in August, a company I’d never even heard of, and it was surprisingly phenomenal, the gold standard to date for any of my flights. I knew this was an economy seat all the way, but I felt confident I could shut my mouth and ignore whatever problems arose on a redeye flight.

Fast forward and there I was in the last boarding group, attempting to get on this airbus with 200 other people. This particular plane had four seats in the center and there was fucking chaos in the aisles. I managed to find to my spot and scanned for my seat but as soon as I found it, I realized a couple of fat fucks were sitting there. I looked at the seat number, R61 annd then confirmed visually that I was not one row off before I opened my mouth. Nope, those were my seats. So I told the gentleman “Sir, you’re in my seat.” Pretty simple. I don’t know how much more gently I could do so, or was expected, but the indignant comment I received was simply “Ok.” People behind me were pushing past, the overheads were beginning to fill up, and the assholes just kept staring at me. I repeated myself in case he didn’t hear me. Still no movement. I guess I should have asked where their seats were so I could scurry over with my tail between my legs? Fucking ridiculous, so I decided just to ask for assistance. I scanned for someone, anyone, scanned some more, then finally said “Can I get some help over here?”

A flight attendant came over, already looking like a whole ass bitch, and asked me what was wrong. I stated that these two “people”, not stupid motherfuckers like I wanted to say, were in the wrong seats. To my great surprise, I was now being stared at by three utter fucking morons with their mouths hanging open. I said, aloud for all to hear “Make them move to their own (fucking implied) seats?!” Ah, finally a spark of comprehension and the broad asked Fat Fuck #1 to vacate to his ticketed seat. He rose, his ginormous gut dragging along the top of the fabric seats, his bottom shirt button straining to restrain the chaos, much like my rage regarding this joke of a situation. He glared at me like I’d just told him there was a limit on soda refills. He mumbled something under his breath but loud enough that I could make out the word bitch clearly. He squeezed through the opening to the aisle and moved up to his rightful seat one fucking row ahead, directly in front of mine.

With that all sorted, the plane had completely filled up and everyone else was basically seated. There was a small duffel in the compartment overhead, strewn in the center, taking up most of the space. I put my hand up to rearrange it to make room for my very small, very compliant roller. Fuck Face #1, still adjusting his inconvenienced ass, slid over and pushed me with his body, quite literally, out of the way. He grabbed the bag and yanked it back to it’s original spot, sneering “Don’t touch my fucking bag” as his elbow caught me in the face. Again, not a motherfucker working this flight said shit to him. I looked around and nothing. Fine. So I put my hardsided bag in the compartment next to his widthwise, knowing damn well it stuck out too far to close the bin. But being that I wasn’t allowed to touch his glorified fannypack, I felt confident the crew would come by and rotate it inward, subsequently overruling the prick’s threat.

That, however, is not what happened.

The flight was boarded, all compartments were closed but ours, and there we sat stewing. I was silent but could feel the flesh bag in front of me seething with rage. I’m, to this day, not sure exactly what the guy’s problem was but some people just need their asses kicked. As I sat in my seat, still silent, with my legs crossed and eyes closed, he began to throw himself wildly against the back of the seat like a child, slamming the tray into my knees. That went on for a few minutes until he pushed the button on the arm and crashed down into my completely upright space, damn near looking up into my nostrils. My blood was boiling and at that moment I decided I could eat $248 all fucking day long. This was my home airport so if I was getting off, we were all getting off. I had no problem getting everyone thrown off this fucking flight and then returning home for a super relaxing staycation at my own damn house.

Just as I opened my mouth to start some shit, the flight attendant came over. I remember thinking ooh, now you’re gonna get it motherfucker! Instead she asked who’s bag was clearly sticking out of the compartment, out loud and a touch annoyed, to which I had to rise and claim for the whole plane to see, as if they hadn’t already been clocking the escalation the past twenty minutes. She instructed me to take it down, myself, to be checked below. What the fuck?! I did as I was told and pulled the bag down, resting it gently beside her feet. Then she walked away with my criminal carry-on that was causing such a scene. I struggled to squeeze back into my spot with Fat Fuck #1 and #2 still fully reclined. I didn’t say a fucking word, waiting for her to return to do final checks, so confident their reckoning was coming. But it never did and she never returned, walking straight to the back of the plane to her own seat. They were never told to put their seats back up, and I’d already burned through more patience and energy than I could afford for an eight hour flight so I popped two Xanax, laid my head back, and vowed to never fly American again.

But I did fly with those motherfuckers just one more time…

Stay tuned next week for Part 2!