Papa Bear-inspired public sexist entitlement call outs
Some days I simply have no patience to suffer sexist, entitled fools and no fucks left to give. Other days, both these emotions coincide, as they did the last time I was at the airport. I revealed my true colors in the security line. As I snaked my way through the perimeter ribbons stifling strong desires to make Get Out jokes at the expense of the TSA, I contemplated the headache I had staying up late with long time friends. I groggily placed the ridiculous lace-up boots it took me four minutes to remove onto the conveyor belt despite it being after noon. I was dejectedly resigned to use my socks as floor swiffers to get through the remainder of security when a dude bro rushed up behind me. Wearing a sports shirt, he grabbed a gray plastic junk boat and started to remove his visor and crocks.
I looked behind him and spied a dozen people he bypassed in line. I established eye contact with him, like a substitute teacher would with a classroom bully, and said with no particular enthusiasm, “Hey, uh, see those people behind you? They were in line first. You cut in front of them.” He looked at me meekly, not regretful exactly, but pleading, almost, as if to say, “Can’t we overlook this minor infraction, just this once?” My humorless expression answered his gaze. I continued to take off half my clothing so it could take its magical journey down the discarded cafeteria lunch dish track while telekinetically relaying to him, “Not today, buddy. Not on my watch. Now, get the fuck out of here and take your place at the back of the line where you belong.” The “douchebag” being implied by my judgy demeanor, of course. He skulked back from whence he came, never to be seen by us again.
And in continuing news of public sexist entitlement
I over drank my first Southwest flight for the day so I was in the ninth boarding group, cementing my destiny for a middle row seat. Just prior to boarding, I read the delicious news of Bill O’Reilly’s inauspicious departure from The Fair and Balanced. I chose a middle seat between two men who both man-spread their legs beyond their allotted area. I inched my feet apart pretending to adjust my seat buckle to lay claim to my already compromised space.
Sometimes I talk to passengers on planes, but not always. I said to the aisle guy, wearing a corporate Cane’s chicken blouse, “I miss the news for one day and Bill O’Reilly gets fired from Fox News. How did that happen?” He responded, “Yeah. Some women didn’t like him flirting with them.” “FLIRTING? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? YOU CALL SEXUALLY HARASSING WOMEN ‘FLIRTING’?” Aisle guy must have reconsidered what it might be like sitting next to me for ninety minutes and actually apologized to me twenty seconds later. I laughed and said, “Did you see flames coming out of my eyeballs? Sorry, it’s one of my hot buttons.” I was not sorry. I was only sorry for saying I was sorry, but at least I spoke up. I was on a roll.
“Not on my watch…”
We go on about our flight. The window guy ordered a Bailey’s on ice, which kinda made me giggle, and aisle guy ordered a Budweiser. Then they declared passenger armrest war on me. They BOTH put their arms on the middle armrests depriving me of any and never thought one thing about it. I was already awkwardly keeping my knees apart and now I was faced the quandary of how to assert my elbow power over these entitled assholes. I focused my ire on aisle guy who’d already proved himself an unredeemable sexist.
Sexist entitlement: it’s not just for breakfast
I strategically waited until sexist aisle guy’s eyes were dreamily closed for a while and the King of Beers settled comfortably in his tummy. Then, I poked him in the arm, forcing him to remove his ear buds. I said, “Hey, I can’t use my laptop with your arm on the armrest. Would you mind letting me have it?” The expression on his face was worth every penny I shucked for my seat same as he did. He was so put out by my request, like he just watched me let my dog shit on his lawn and walk away without bagging it. I could feel every annoyed thought in his head labeling me a “god damn feminist killjoy”, or whatever, and it filled me with unimaginable happiness. Then, he moved his arm off the rest.