This is like that time we went to see the re-released Star Wars and had to pay a toll to get INTO Oklahoma.
I'm checking flights -- which I do as sort of a hobby, always planning the next or potential next or fantasy next trip -- and I figure I'll check to see what this year's Xmas-to-visit-the-fam-in-Texass trip is gonna run us. Doodly doodly doo, ballpark the dates, yada yada, the usual airline, the usual airports, I know it's gonna be higher than it would be in like April because they gotcha by the short'n'curlies with xmas travel in general but hey I'm doing this in July so maybe I'll get the early ...
Son of a ... what the fuck, did I put in eight travelers or something? This isn't a motherfucking private charter, is it?
Nope. Even if we don't get the baby his own seat, this absolute cockaround -- in nonrefundable internet-only fuck-you steerage class, with no fun little extras like enough room for Mr. Gleemonex's knees, from one heavily-traveled California airport to the airline's goddamned global hub in a state only halfway across Our Great Nation -- is two-and-a-half times the price of our upcoming trip to Hawaii.
And because I like to torture myself, I ran the same dates for Xmas in Paris. Air France, nonstop.
Two hundred and seventy-three dollars less.
STAB STAB STAB STABBITY STAB.