5 Reasons to Avoid Airplanes At All Costs

For my dear friend,

Tommy Jay

By Sonny Long

I don't remember any age of mine before six. That was before I turned seven, of course. Once I realized my dog had passed, I could finally own up to my mistake: blowing up the gnome my mother cherished. None of that could even come close to the time I boarded my first airplane.

There I was, cute as a button and fast as a bolt of lightning. Nothing got past me, except that knock knock joke my father used to tell me. That got past me. Still does. Anyway, I was six at the time, maybe seven. My mother was still pissed at me about the dog. Or was it the gnome? Don't remember. Either way, there was the plane. It was cool as hell and probably faster than myself. Probably.

I got on, pushed past my brothers and sisters that I probably had at the time, and found my seat. My father grabbed my luggage and stowed it above my head in the stowing department of the plane. Probably.

I think we all know what happened next: ebola terrorists. Being my six year-old self, I leapt into action and grabbed my six shooter revolver BB gun from my holster. The terrorists were rounding up the women and children throughout the plane. They hadn't noticed me yet. I grabbed my cowboy hat and lowered it over my eyes as a tumbleweed rolled down the center aisle. This was it. It was the moment I was waiting for. I had to prove myself as the man-child I always knew I was.

"It's him!" The terrorists were ecstatic. They thought this was their chance to take me in, to kill me. I unveiled my revolver and fired all six rounds at the terrorists before taking cover. They fired back with their automatic rifles, bazookas, grenades, and I think there were a few nuclear missiles being thrown around. Can't remember for sure, though. I survived all of that. The next wave was harder to endure. It was a red mist moving toward me menacingly. Ebola. That's what it was.

I did a few flips, jumped over a few seats, and twirled my hair at the mist. It wasn't enough. It kept coming at me. I only had one option at this point: open the emergency exit. I did that. I grabbed onto a seat and watched the red mist fly out of the plane as the air pressure forced it out.

The terrorists were closing in on me. The ebola was just a distraction. I had no options at this point. The terrorists aimed their bazooka-rifles at me with angst. I was filled with angst. It was angst against angst at this point. I put both both my hands together and began saying the ancient chants of Seal Team Six. My hands filled with a ball of energy that I used to throw at the terrorists. They flew back into the cockpit, where the pilot, co-pilot, and some nice ladies resided.

Suddenly, the plane began spiraling out of control as I had knocked the pilots unconscious with my terrorist throwing. I had no choice but to rush to the cockpit and save the day. I didn't. The plane crashed in a field and I died.

That's why I can't ride planes anymore.

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