I recently found myself on a Virgin America flight. Or trapped on one, I should say.
Flying has become a bigger pain in the ass than ever, though, to be fair, the cramped seating and recirculated farts have been relatively terror-free since 9/11.
Unless you consider this terror.
Perhaps this was billionaire Richard Branson’s plan all along: to douse his airline in such wanton commercialization that terrorists would not be able to stomach his flights (how, exactly, was this guy knighted?). I know a single barf bag wouldn’t have held the contents I was ready to project(ile) forth when the monitors dropped and this began playing.
I get that no one likes to watch the pre-flight videos, all proselyting how to fold a tray table and affix an oxygen mask before becoming human putty on the side of a mountain. It must be even worse for a flight attendant: Is there a deeper level hell than having to repeatedly demonstrate how a seat belt works?
But I’ll give this to the video: It prompted a spirited debate with my co-passenger over whether the idiocy at least got people to watch the federally-mandated nagging.
And I’m sure it did.
Still, it was the featherweight tone of the video, contrasted with the heavyweight subject matter, that unsettled me. Would tricky Dick have produced such a song-and-dace to instruct the tenants of his 400 companies what to do, say, if ISIS attacks?
For me, it was the dancing nun that nearly made me spit up milk through my nose — and I wasn’t drinking milk. I would have guffawed aloud lest the TSA escort me from the flight. They already have me on their must-grope list when I walk through metal detectors (No, that’s not a pen knife, and no, I’m not happy to see you.).
At least he serves alcohol on his planes. This required a double whisky, straight up: