He sat down. Quietly. He read the barf bag.

He sat down. Quietly. He read the barf bag. He'd felt a little jumpy and scanned the passengers coming on board. No body language cues. A ten year old said, "You're an Air Marshall

move back up the charts, but this time as an instrumental hummed by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. They were delighted to have a hit song this century and celebrated by slapping each

other's buttocks the way the sports guys do. Nothing homoerotic about that, they thought as they hummed along with the radio. Hmm, mmm, mmm, mmm

, mmm, HMMM, WHY, EM, SEE, AY. They all leaped into a Glee inspired chorus line. Finally, hetrosexual men could release their shackles and wear make-up and carry purses. Equality,

however, was irrelevant to the homophobic, live action South Park-esque morality of this piece of shit sitcom which made up for poor writing with padding time with show tunes. Glee

has lost it's appeal and now no one wanted it. The time with it dragged on and my remote itched to change the channel.

The remote found it unbearable and couldn't wait any longer. It jumped off the coffee table and made a bee line for the TV. The remote smashed itself against the screen and

annoyed me. My electronic devices were spoiled brats. I spanked them all soundly and sent them to bed. The next morning my TV and my remote said they were sorry. I forgave them and

when they repeated their bad behavior, staying up late, wasting energy excessively, and caused me to burn my fuse again, I decided to ground them and called the electrician.