i want to go to paris and bagged-dad.

And stowaway bags. Those harbouring stashes of groceries, electronics, meals, books, life-sized sex toys in the likeness of Paris Hilton, etc. So much there is in observing the placements of these. You’ve them buggers who unabashedly ‘fall asleep’ IMMEDIATELY after having deposited them in the adjacent seat(s). And those who keep them carefully and thoughtfully arranged on the floor just so that only every single person will trip over them every time they attempt any known form of physical movement.

There’s an art to Adjacent Seat Bag Placement, you know. First you take up 2/3 of your own seat. Then on the adjacent seat on the side where more of you reside, you place the relevant article, taking up the magical fraction of a seat again: 2/3 (remember this golden number well). This means you’ll now have your article sitting near, next to you, with the two remaining 1/3 of the seats flanking you and your baggage. The advantages of this arrangement are plenty. Firstly, you have an impregnable (upon pain of discomfort experienced in parking one’s ass in such a position as to have the raised partition separating seats nestled between one’s butt cheeks) force-field of 1/3 seats on either side of you that’ll effectively foil hand bitches’/bastards’ schemes and thus gives you leeway for undisturbed slumber. Secondly, in case you get woken up, you’ve then given yourself the heavily clichéd choice between fighting and buggering off. Cos if the disturbance has come from a spectacle-wearing, tutu-donning, Backstreet Boys-listening, mother-fucking whoreson of a bleeding effete; then you’re politically correct (where they practice politics in my world anyway) in taking up the rest of the space on your wings and appearing justifiably indignant. However, if you’ve been gently cooed awake by the most courteous, civil-minded, polite, etc. gentleman of all gentlemen; then you can hasten to acknowledge his silent chiding and make way for him drawing everything into your unoccupied 1/3s. And his 7-foot, 500-pound frame. And his facial calisthenics that will rival that of Mike Tyson’s should the latter find himself confronted by a dinner with horse manure as garnishing. The normal course of action in this case is of course best accompanied by the contortion of one’s body into the foetal position whilst emitting suitably apt whimpering moans of apology in strategic, sporadic bursts.

Somehow this has gotten to become somewhat a monthly thing. Whatever. No time, no want. Oh well, whatever, nevermind.