Blame Canada

I have spent an unreasonable amount of time lately being tortured in a fiendish contraption called a "Canadair Regional Jet." It's a lot like an airplane, only one designed to be comfortable only for a rare species of dwarf Frenchman that grows only above the Arctic Circle. Not fitting into the seats and not being able to stand up in the aisles are relatively minor torments. And I suppose it's partly my own fault that when I crawl out into the aisle I always crack my head on the opposite side luggage bins. The rest room offers a little comic relief, since using it requires positions I had only previously seen assumed by circus contortionists.

What really annoys me though is that as I try to stumble out, bent so low that I can only see my feet, the pilot invariably distracts me with some fatuous comment, causing me to put yet another dent in my head by colliding with the sharp edge of the top of the door, which is mounted about 3.5 feet above the floor level.

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