The flight to Portland is full, and all the overheads are full of cruelty-free carbon-neutral backpacks.
“You’ll need to check your roll-on,” says the gate attendant.
I walk to my seat, but a bearded hipster is already in it.
“Dude,” he growls.
The stewardess apologizes and guides me to another seat.
“We had to move passengers around to balance the sarcasm and irony.”
I sit down, stuck between two reeking natives too cool for deodorant.
Forget flotation device. Can a seat be used as a gas mask?
An alarm goes off.
The stewardess says I’ve set off the sarcasm alarm.