The Belly of the Beast

The regulatory in-case-of-an-emergency safety sheet that Southwest Airlines goes over at the beginning of each flight is a lot of fun.



Here we have a favorite of mine: the idea that if a plane crashes, you'll be sliding blissfully from the wing of the airplane into the awaiting arms of a fatherly figure. This World of Fun/Oceans of Fun fantasy is much more pleasant than the more likely scenario that, should these people somehow survive an emergency water landing, the plane would be both sinking and on fire. Apparently this was a “we didn't put enough fuel in the plane!” scenario, because any jet fuel left would float on the surface of the water and simulate The Inferno.



Yeah, that's it, dad: shove the boy's head into his knees, there's a good safety position. Put your head down, keep your head up, brace yourself awkwardly against the chair in front of you, or you can always put your head between your legs and kiss your ass goodbye. Just make sure to keep your seatbelt buckled below twenty thousand feet.

I suppose the reason this sort of thing is advocated is because any one of these random positions is equally likely to save your life in the event of an emergency. I wonder if it's kindness that the airline doesn't mention those odds all equally round down to zero.

Southwest Airlines: free roasted peanuts, and won't remind you that in the event of an emergency, you're fucked.

Ding.

That aside, I'm pretty excited to be heading to New Hampshire. I admit I may have been grinning uncontrollably the whole time I was boarding the plane—in fact until we hit about fifteen thousand feet, and then I probably only stopped to pop my ears. That enthusiasm may curb a bit once we hit Chicago, and face the increasingly likely scenario of a six-hour delay due to Midwest storms, but for now, I'm pumped.