There’s an unspoken rule of air travel: check behind you before reclining. The businessman in 12B either didn’t know or didn’t care – until my pretzel rebellion began.
After polite requests and official intervention failed, I unleashed the nuclear option – an open bag of pretzels and zero concern for crumb containment. Each dramatic chew sent a rain of salty debris onto his perfectly gelled hair.
His eventual surrender came with muttered curses, but the victory was sweet. Literally. Because after the pretzels ran out, I moved on to powdered donuts.
