Pilot Error

Everyone has heard stories of people who decide at the last minute not to take a flight and then the plane crashes into a train or someone brought a pipe bomb on board or something like that and everyone dies spectacularly — everyone except the person who didn’t get on the plane that is.

Those stories are all complete bullshit and every man in the world knows it. They’re like ghosts and astrology and Elvis sightings; just a bunch of lame and obtuse fabrications of non sequitur minds that allow women to live their lives according to unreliable, intangible signs that only they can see or interpret. Like Groundhog’s Day in the dark.

Did the groundhog see his shadow? Who cares, I’m pregnant!

What is not bullshit is that I will do exactly that on one condition; I will refuse to take a flight at the last minute on one condition: if a woman is flying the plane.

The reason I haven’t missed a flight yet is because there are no women pilots.

Piloting takes a bunch of shit that women can’t do. Women can’t read dials or maps, they can’t communicate effectively, and they sure as shit can’t work a joystick — of any kind. In the end, however, its more than mere incompetence that keeps the wingless harpy known as woman tethered to the Earth like a sack of lard.

The reason is that women are afraid of greatness.

There’s an old and dumb saying that goes, ‘behind every great man, there is a woman.’ That’s true, but do you know what that woman is doing? She’s cowering in fear from the thundering applause and adoration that a great man receives — like a dog cowering behind the couch when the vacuum cleaner whirrs to life.

Women are afraid of success. That’s why they’ve got such a hard-on for teamwork, that’s why no one gives a shit each year when a new woman is inducted into the Women Who Have Made a Difference Hall of Fame – because they haven’t, and that’s why they don’t fly planes. Not because it would be criminally negligent; not because women make it two weeks into flight school and decide to become stewardesses (something that they are perfect for because it only requires a shitty attitude and the navigational skills of a Skiball thrown by the retarded), but because no woman ever looked up into the great blue sky and said, I wish I was up there. I wish I was something.

In the end women are the sum of their impulses; unreliable to the present, and intangible to history.