A few years ago, I was flying back to New York City from Los Angeles. I sat in the very last row, where the seat doesn’t recline —- I mean, that really doesn’t mean anything anymore, am I right? I stuffed my bag under the seat in front of me, which left me with no legroom. And here’s the kicker: It was the middle seat on a full flight.
It was agonizing, and it doesn’t end there. There were thunderstorms in NYC, which meant that we flew in circles above Newark Airport for a couple of hours. Next we were running out of fuel, so we landed at a small Air Force base in Pennsylvania to refuel.
By this time, we had on the plane for over eight hours, and we proceeded to sit at that air base for another 90 minutes. Once airborne again, we couldn’t land at any of the airports in NYC because of the storms, so we flew to Boston. It was a nightmare in the sky that never ended.
Now, when I get a seat anywhere, even in the middle, and it isn’t the last row, I celebrate.
But my horrible experience pales in comparison to what Donald Trump has to deal with when he flies on renowned Air Force One. Returning from his Middle East gilded trip late this week, Trump sounded less than pleased with his flight itinerary. “I leave now and get into a 42-year-old Boeing,” he griped to reporters.
Boo-hoo, Donald. We feel so very sorry for you having to fly on the majestic Air Force One.
Donald, how would you compare the following scenario to your experience on your personal luxury jet, which you call “Trump One,” and your current shabby plane that is a hallmark of U.S. pride worldwide. It’s arguably the world’s most famous plane..
Imagine instead, Donald, that you’re flying back via the following scenario. You rush to the airport and finally make it to your gate after waiting in a security line that felt like an audition for Survivor. You board in Zone 5. You shuffle down the aisle like cattle, bumping shoulders and apologizing every 10 seconds. Wait a minute! You would definitely be one of those arrogant people who does not apologize.
You reach your seat . Let’s say it’s 27B. Middle. You stow your backpack under the seat in front of you, instantly losing six inches of legroom. You’re overweight, Donald (morbidly obese), so your love handles are already overflowing into the seats next to you. Your knees, already wobbly, are now pressed up against a hard plastic tray table. Your elbows are engaged in Cold War-era diplomacy for the armrests, and your seatmate has just revealed a fetid tuna sandwich.
Now, compare that to flying on your “42-year-old Boeing.” You sit comfortably in myriad rooms, offices, and gilded suites of Air Force One. It’s a plane so luxurious it makes the Ritz-Carlton look like a Motel 6; nevertheless, you start complaining.that it’s not as nice as a Qatari 747 you might get for free.
Trump is telling anyone stupid enough to believe him that the Qataris are falling over themselves to give him a $400 million plane that to his warped sense of entitlement makes Air Force One look like junk. Aww. Poor baby. The free world’s most pampered frequent flyer wants an upgrade.
This isn’t just tone-deaf. Trump is in a full-blown braggadocio of entitlement. He is essentially and cluelessly lobbying for a foreign government to hand him a literal flying palace that he intends to keep after leaving office.
Not only is it borderline illegal under U.S. ethics and national security laws (presidents aren’t supposed to take foreign bribes, even if they come with gold-plated bathrooms), it’s also grotesquely immoral.
Experts say converting the Qatari 747 to meet U.S. security and communications standards could cost taxpayers $1 billion or more. That’s right, a billion dollars so that Trump can have a shinier toy than the current marvel he’s already been gifted by the American people.
And that, of course, is Air Force One. It’s technically the VC-25, so it is not just a plane. It’s a 4,000-square-foot fortress in the sky. It has private sleeping quarters, an onboard medical suite, and even an emergency operating room, secure communications, two full-service kitchens that can prepare 100 meals at a time, and enough defensive technology to qualify as a mini Pentagon with wings.
It is part presidential command center, part five-star hotel, and part flying tank.
Trump, meanwhile, has his own Trump Force One, a Boeing 757 he used when he wasn’t using a taxpayer plane, to fly to rallies and golf courses, retrofitted with gold-plated seat belt buckles, leather armchairs, and a 57-inch flat-screen TV. Which I assume has no remote control, since it’s “glued” to Fox News.
His granddaughter recently gave the public a tour, which looked like the set of Succession if it had been designed by Liberace. But Trump still feels the need to moan about the fact that Air Force One doesn’t quite match the glitz of a gulf state dictator’s private bird.
He isn’t just missing the point. He’s proving it.
Here we are in a moment when American air travel has become a test of physical endurance. Just ask any passenger rerouted through Newark Airport, where the only guarantee is that you will arrive somewhere, sometime, somehow, possibly with a new appreciation for the pain of a gout toe — trust me, it’s hell on wheels, or feet..
The lines at Newark are endless. The delays are biblical. The only in-flight entertainment is listening to the flight attendants fight with gate agents over which flight deserves the one working jet bridge. And Trump wants to tell us Air Force One, with its gourmet meals, satellite communications, missile defense systems, and operating room, just doesn’t cut it?
You know what, Donald, if you’re not happy with Air Force One, here’s an alternative for you.
We’ll put you in the back row on a Newark-bound Spirit Airlines flight. No preboarding. No Secret Service. You’ll pay $75 to bring a carry-on, and they’ll still gate-check it. You’ll sit next to a screaming toddler — we know how much you love kids! Whose parents are like your parents, convinced that their child is an angel whose just a bit cranky.
Instead of your homemade hamburgers on Air Force One, your “snack” will be a single sad Biscoff cookie and a plastic cup half full of your cherished Diet Coke (no, you cannot have the whole can). Then we’ll delay the flight for three hours due to a shortage of air traffic controllers. We’ll let you stew on the tarmac with nothing but a paper-thin seat and an angry bladder (from your half cup of Diet Coke.).
Only then can you tell us what flying really feels like.
Until then, maybe keep your mouth shut about the horror of flying on Air Force One. Most of us would give anything for a flight where your knees aren’t jammed into your rib cage, your chin isn’t glued to your chest, and your neighbor doesn’t take their socks off.
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