You can slowly slide his seat forward, gradually reducing his legroom for chuckles. Blow cold air in his face. Shine lights in his eyes. Remorselessly goad him with a stick. Hidden beneath his seat is a turbulence simulator: activate this if he reaches for orange juice. Seated beside him is an animatronic baby which will scream, dribble or belch half-digested rusk down the side of his face whenever you see fit.
And if physical discomfort isn’t enough, why not mess with his mind? Pipe in a faked announcement from the pilot claiming the plane’s accidentally flown through a time-hole and will now remain airborne for eternity. Chortle through mouthfuls of roast goose as he tries to slash his own throat with his stupid plastic dinner knife. Revel in his desperation! That’s what it’s there for!
Of course the inequality of air travel is a caricature of what happens on the ground: space and resources for all, doled out disproportionately. Yet no matter what relative comforts we’re gifted, we’re all screwed if the wings fall off. And the bolts holding them in place have been loosening for some time. Here endeth the tortured metaphor. Good night.
Dawn of the Dumb Page 36