Long day, wanna get home, fatigued to the bone, ugly weather everywhere, support not to be seen. Delays measure now in multiples of hours, passengers in full revolt, FA’s swamped, overloaded and needy. If you don’t make this landing, the rest of yer month goes south, won’t make the guarantee, probably have to make it up with another three-day trip somewhere in the off days. So much for your five-year olds’ school play. And God help you if you break the airplane, lotsa trees die for that paperwork.
The MBA touts who now write the rules we all live, die, and make our mortgage payments by, well, something has gone terribly wrong here. You want safety? Talk to the six-figured idiot-savants who control the money and write the plan, funny how they always come out spanking clean, and barring that, at least several millions in recompense to crawl back into the miserable holes they impossibly came from.
Not that I’m bitter or anything, it’s just that I really love my job, flying commercial jets is a very romantic occupation, the women on my crew would be lining up at my hotel room door, if they weren’t so damned dog-tired from flying eighteen hours a day.
I also hear some pilots fly turboprops in Tahiti, and life is tropical and good, in a Pina Colada kinda way. Would anyone happen to have a line on that employment?