Ah. Here they come.
Their custom briefcases.
Their stupid hats.
Their impeccable neatness.
It sickens me.
If I were flying a plane, I’d turn up in slippers (for decent grip on the gate’s tiles), with the inclination to take them off as soon as I touch carpet.
I would wear a shirt, under a long shirt, under a refreshing (red or grey) jacket, that acts more like a jumper. You see, it is a suggestion of layers, something deeper than my exterior first impression. I am an onion who flies a plane (also, I plan to fuck with the air conditioning).
Pants are simply optional – but would be loose, and have plenty of pockets, either for mile-high condiments or cheeses, but ultimately for hankies and stealing peanuts that I would never eat.
No hat. Ever. But I would definitely wear aviators.
I would have three assistants, who would fly the plane for me. I would be there only for emergencies (where I would just say, “Relax and die quietly.”).
I would probably sit in economy.
In the middle seat.
That would show them.
– Scott Sandwich