To You, Sir

JetBlue, flight 472 from Oakland, CA to Boston, MA, December 28th, seat 5C. You, sir, are an asshole. A double-chinned, slovenly, pseudo-cultured, poseur, geriatric queef reeking of Ben-Gay and Fleet home enema solution.
YOU, sir, who firstly had the *galls* to fill up an overhead compartment meant for three, with your carry-on baggage, your SPRAWLED OUT WOOL COAT, AS WELL AS your delicate little shopping bag full of tissue-wrapped god-knows-what old-man knick-knacks (I'm curious now, sir, what was it, so delicately wrapped in that bag of yours? Could it have been a penis-pump for an elderly old man?), which I'm *sure* that, given the opportunity, you would have pointed out to me that you purchased from an upscale yet chic-in-its-anonymity boutique, no doubt a gift for your equally ugly (and hopefully ungrateful) grand-daughter, DESPITE THE CAPTAIN AND STEWARDESSES STRESSING SEVERAL TIMES our status as an extremely full flight, and that smaller carry-ons were to be stowed beneath the seat in front of you in order to conserve overhead space. You sir, proceeded to scowl at me with your sour-mouthed expression (no doubt a permanent fixture on your collagen-bereft wrinkled visage - could it be the chronic constipation perhaps that purses your lips in that particular irritable manner? Perhaps you should see a doctor about that, I hear they have treatments now for Irritable Bowel Syndrome), as I took a look at the overhead compartment and contemplated how exactly I would stuff my carry-on in, amongst your carelessly, and inconsiderately placed personal belongings.
Sir, rather than manhandling your things, as I'm sure you would have been quite pleased with my "delicate" handling of such items, as I was in a bad mood, I decided to go with the more polite course of action by turning to you and asking "sir, do you think you could help me with this?" hoping to incite some sort of response and acknowledgement of your ill-distributed belongings.
You, of course, responded with a curt and sour, "no. I can't lift things. Sorry. No. I can't."
Somewhat taken aback by your obnoxious response, I must say I was even more taken aback by your further addition, as I was subtly crushing your belongings with my carry-on, of "if you can't carry it, you shouldn't have brought it with you."
Now, sir, had I not been in the midst of cramming my rollerboard into an overhead compartment in which some uncultured twat had placed his loose assorted belongings (oh yes, sir, by the way, I *did* manage to roll over your beloved wool coat several times with my dirty rollerboard wheels - the self-same wheels I have dragged through the vomit-strewn streets of Central Square), I would have informed you:
"Sir, I hope that someone says that to your children about *you* next time they are taking you on vacation."
For you see, nothing would bring more joy to my heart than watching your children check *you* in along with their baggage, rather than springing for an extra seat (or really, two in your case, as you weren't all that thin, either) - God knows you do *everything you possibly can* to further the stereotype that our elderly are nothing but dead baggage to society.
However, I must admit that watching as the flight attendant proceeded to evict your small items from the overhead bin and ceremoniously dump them in your lap, came close.
It was very admirable of you, sir, to put up the good fight with regard to your coat. Oh sir, your coat. So precious, the fabric, so delicate indeed, that it must have been made from Phrixius' Golden Fleece itself. No, you were correct, such a fine piece of clothing did *not* deserve to be folded twice and crammed into the overhead bin above my rollerboard, despite the flight attendant's assurances that "wool's pretty resilient, I'm sure it'll be fine for 6 hours." I was silently cheering for you from my seat, as you proceeded to piss and whine at the poor flight attendant, unfortunately to no avail - though I must admit I was unclear as to where you were going to store said coat, if not in the overhead compartment, as you clearly were not going to stoop to the level of your seatmates and carry it in your lap, like the rest of us lowly peons. No sir, I did not note if it was London Fog, but I assume for you it was an absolute *steal* from the Goodwill bargain bin.
I especially enjoyed the silence and scowl following said argument over the coat, followed by your exaggerated flipping out of your (hardcover) copy of Gaiman's newest, Anansi Boys. What exactly, sir, were you attempting to accomplish by ensuring that I *saw* the cover of your reading material? Were you attempting to instill a sense of culture, an air of literacy and cutting-edge chic about yourself? I agree, sir, that The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Klay was *so* last year (though I doubt that you, unlike I, have met either of the authors of said aforementioned novels), although I am afraid I must inform you, sir, that Gaiman's primary Bostonian fanbase consists mainly of worthless, vain, introverts who have come to the erroneous conclusion that a long black trench coat will make *anyone* goth, and thus chic (oh! But then again, perhaps *that* was why you were so sensitive about your long black coat!). I had only wished you had been satisfied in your presumed smugness and erroneous established self-worth for the rest of the flight, but then you *had* to inflict yourself upon us once again with the arrival of "hot chick" in seat 5B.
Now, while "hot chick" was decidedly not bad-looking, the "hot" descriptor primarily refers to the fact that upon finding her seat, she stripped down to her tank top. You, of course, sir, were immediately taken by the fact that you were in close proximity with a young, female chest (clearly something that, it seems, you hadn't been in contact with since you stopped breast-feeding at age 3), and proceeded to attempt small-talk. In the most pathetic of manners, the likes of which I have not seen since witnessing a classmate soil himself from nervousness in the 8th grade whilst in the midst of asking a girl out, you claimed, "hot in here, isn't it?"
Well yes, sir, it seems that our seatmate, "hot chick," found the environment rather warm, especially since she bashfully responded to your leering (which, by the way, was by no means subtle), with "yes, actually, especially since I woke up with a mild fever this morning."
Great. Just great. I was now officially trapped for six hours with a plague victim and the gross old man unable to peel his eyes off her modest body. Though sir, another thing I might inquire: how did you *ever* expect to impress or even attract "hot chick" with that *horrendous* and *absolutely disgusting* snort-and-blow routine of yours? That self-same routine which you proceeded to perform the *entire* flight, that is, between the times that you were so graciously allowing our ailing seatmate to get up and go to the bathroom, and getting up to go to the bathroom yourself (I noticed you distinctly had a condition known as thimble-sized-bladder, maybe it's time to invest in some Depends? Oh and here's a thought for you: if you can't hold it, maybe you shouldn't have brought it with you!).
Despite the personal television screen and comfortable seat, I could hardly wait to get my sorry ass off the plane, and from the looks of your agitated packing and shoving upon our landing, neither could you, though I can only hope that in your hurry to disembark you slipped on the jetway and broke your brittle old man hip.

Let it never be said that JetBlue is an unpleasant airline. Rather, they have been one of the few enjoyable airline companies I have had the pleasure of experiencing. No, no sir, it is the patrons - the ones with bubonic plague, and the cretacean, philistine trolls who hit on them, specifically YOU, sir, in JetBlue 472, Seat 5C, who so effectively ruin my flight experience.

YOU, sir, are the reason I am a staunch advocate of post-birth abortion with an unlimited age threshold, and euthanasia of the useless and stupid. May your next colonoscopy puncture your lower intestine.

Sincerely,
Seat 5A

Further bulletins as events warrant.