I understand that we are not a race of giants, and 6’7 can’t be considered “normal height” anywhere outside the locker room of the NBA, but your seats are too goddamn small. The Imp from “a Game of Thrones” couldn’t fit into these things comfortably. Of course, who’s to say if he could’ve sat anywhere comfortably, given that his brother and sister were making naughty in each other’s pants. God knows that would leave me feeling out of sorts on a divan made entirely of playboy bunnies. But if there were a place that a vertically-challenged bystander to sibling incest could rest serenely, I assure you that your bastard seats would not be it.
I appreciate that you’ve supplied me the option to pay extra money for the privilege of not sitting with my knees under my chin for four straight hours. But in the event of a crash, wouldn’t you prefer to know that it will be a freakishly tall man ripping the exit open, all bare chested and glistening*, rather than the octogenarians or plump middle-aged women who can actually afford to pay the extra cash? Are you hoping I’ll be able to leap from my plebeian seat and assist the manicured Dolce&Gabbana horse in her struggles with the emergency release? I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’ll be too busy unfolding my legs from around my fucking head.
*Dramatization. May not have happened.