Airlines have us by the genitals. We pay hundreds of dollars to sit well within accepted standards of personal space, pay $5 more for crappy food, and breathe dry, recycled air. Then the unthinkable happens: they try to sell us a credit card?
That’s right. Sitting here, two hours into the flight to Charlotte, they announce over the speaker that they have a special program with some megabank to get us bonus miles, if we get megabank’s credit card.
Where can I go? I’m 2000 miles from home and 36000 feet in the air. I have no choice but to crank up “The Hold Steady”. Surely, “Southtown Girls” can drown out this consumer-obsessed drivel.
