Anna Collins

By Anna Collins

"Gremlins! Gremlins! I'm not imagining it, he's out there! Don't look, he's not out there now. He jumps away whenever anyone might see him, except me."

– William Shatner as Robert Wilson in “The Twilight Zone”, “Nightmare at 20,000 Feet” episode, and Anna Collins, every plane trip

I hate to fly. Hate it, hate it, hate it. And I hated it before all this let’s-keep-the-public-placated fake security rigmarole. Hated it even before it became known that there could be pinheads, half-wits and drunkards servicing or flying the planes. Even before they took away the decent meals, the little packs of chewing gum and the free warm bootie socks.  Yes, I’ve never trusted being 25,000 feet in the air in a zillion ton airplane. It just seems too iffy to me.

They always tell you, “You’re much safer in a plane than a car. Don’t worry.” Where’d they get that piece of advice from – Alfred E. Neuman? Kiss my fuselage.

Worst case scenario, I get in a car accident – even if it involves a van full of drunken nuns, a Jeep load of armed midgets and six drug dealers in an Escalade – I’m still on the ground. I always have the option of running, walking, crawling or somersaulting away from the carnage. In a plane, if there’s an accident, chances are you’re in a high-speed nosedive plummeting toward whatever ocean or godforsaken land mass is beneath you. Which is a safer accident? And how strange to even ponder a “safe accident”?

Experiencing turbulence on a plane is one of the scariest experiences known to man. I always think of that “Twilight Zone” episode with William Shatner, when the sky alien is trying to tear the wing of the plane off. I think that’s really true.

The worst is when the lights start to flicker and the captain turns on the “fasten seat belts” sign. And why do they call him the “Captain” suddenly? I thought he was the pilot? Another reason to be nervous – the driver has an alias. And as if a paltry seatbelt is gonna save your ass when you’re plunging into the Atlantic. Gimme a break. Or a cyanide capsule.

Let’s face it – anything starts going wrong on a plane and it’s Let’s-Make-a-Deal-with-God time: “Please God, just let me live! I promise I’ll visit my parents more – even if it takes an extra valium and five scotches to do it. I’ll be nicer to my co-workers, who I think are a bunch of blithering idiots – I’m sorry – I’ll never say that again – they’re really nice people – oh, who am I kidding? They’re assholes! But forget I said that! Here’s the thing – just let me live and I absolutely, positively promise, promise, promise I’ll stop banging my boyfriend’s brother. I know it’s wrong – but I can’t help it! Yes, I can! I can help it, I swear! I promise! Just let me live dear, sweet Jesus in the sky!”

Then the turbulence stops. You realize that in your delirium you’ve been yelling that shit out loud with your boyfriend sitting right next to you, along with his brother and his brother’s wife whom you work with, sitting across the aisle. The four of you are on a 14-hour trip to Australia for a family reunion where you’ll meet your boyfriend’s parents for the first time. A lonnnnng trip.

The perils of aerodynamics aside, how about  that “security” at the airport? Standing in line like cattle while they prod, scan, search and if they so desire, look inside your coolie, to make sure you’re not a security risk.  It’s enough to make anyone stay home and drink.

All that pageantry is a bunch of horse manure anyway. If terrorists really wanted to take down a plane – they jolly well could. Despite all that so-called security, an inside job is an ever-present option to evil-doers. Too many people have access to the planes. The food suppliers, the maintenance people, the pilot, the co-pilot and, of course, those lovely flight attendants, most of them graduates of the Heinrich Himmler School of Charm. All that scanning and checking is worthless. I have a better idea.

Give everyone a complimentary size can of Mace before they board. Once you’re on the plane, if anyone starts acting like an asshole and/or screaming in Arabic or Pashto, for any reason, Mace now, ask questions later. Each plane should have a holding cell for these dipshits. Maybe convert one of those spacious lavatories. And put a sign in there that says: Suicide Encouraged. I know, I’m just a hopeless romantic. 

In addition, before you even get on the plane – you have to answer those lame, time-wasting questions. This is a perfect example of the dumbing down of this country, the squandering of taxpayers' money, and the totally ridiculous procedures that pass for security. Look, does anyone really think asking a person if someone helped them “pack their bags” or if they “left their bags unattended” are actually questions that make any sense or difference? What’s it got to do with anything whatsoever? It’s laughable. Since when is asking a question a guarantee of an honest answer? What planet are these people on?

As if a terrorist (who was perhaps absent on the day Answering Questions When Bomb Smuggling 101 was taught) got as far as the check-in when someone asked: Has anyone helped you pack your bags? What? Suddenly he’ll become Honest Abe, er, Abdul? All that hard work and preparation he went through; the selecting of the bomb, the making of the bomb, the packing of the bomb, all foiled, because of one question.

Like he’s gonna answer: Oh, how I wish you had not asked me that question! I wish you had asked me something else – like a good recipe for falafel or what my favorite Bruce Willis movie is. Now I must answer. Yes, someone did help me. It was Mohammad-Akbar-Amir-Osama-Yo-Mama-Deathana-To-Amerikana-Bin-Laden, my close and evil terrorist friend. You are so smart to ask that question! I never imagined you would. Now I must answer truthfully, just because you asked. That is why you clever Americans are Number One World Power.”

And you can’t be a wise-ass when they ask you those questions either. You can’t have fun with the absurdity. You can’t say: Did someone help me pack? And have my bags been out of my sight?” Hmm. Well, let’s start with question one. Are you shittin’ me? I’m lucky I can get some hump to take me to dinner – let alone pack my bags. Hey if you come across a single, bag-packing guy with no kids who’s gainfully employed – give him my number would ya? And the only time my bags were out of my sight was when I left them outside the stall in the ladies room while I slipped in to do a few lines of coke off the edge of my switchblade that I have concealed in my purse right next to the ticking package in the plain brown wrapper that I received from a stranger in a turban wearing a T-shirt with I Know Igneous Formations Smarter than George Bush written across the front.”  Zhoom! It’s off to the airport slammer you go!

So when Amtrak goes to Paris, give me a shout.