Slumming it at 35,000 feet
Where to draw the line?
IN A WORLD WHERE GEORGE KENNEDY is always the co-pilot, bums having issues with First Class wine lists (No Night Train?) have no truck with nitpicking amenities.
As we know, certain choosers can't pretend to be beggars. ("Why can't you pleasantly accept your fate in aerial steerage?"), specifically those whom we know already have their own parachute stowed beneath that bile-stained trenchcoat (along with their choice of a Plan B Bailout).
So, endless regaling of tipsy tales about Self-Justified Entitlements ("Society owes me, man") along with Third Class poserage just doesn't convince. Cross-legged mumbling in a First Class seat with Sterno™, a hot dog and headphones? Oh, we see right through that.
Thus, in a scenario in which ostentatious, self-serving displays of voluntary anarcho-plebianism could potentially spell doom for passengers and groundlings alike, an immediate appeal to authority is paramount -- we, the public, need a Kennedy as stratospheric bouncer to tais-toi des canailles.
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