Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Those friends of the decanter who have been around long enough know of Ol’ Robbo’s irrational fear of flying.

Well I’m here to tell you that nothing is more likely to deepen that aversion than landing in the middle of a thunderstorm and having to listen throughout the descent to the ten year old kid across the aisle repeatedly chirp in a high, penetrating voice, “Well, that’s it! Ladies and gentlemen, we’re all gonna die!”

Had I not been hanging on to my armrests with the grip of a drowning man, I undoubtedly would have reached across and strangled the little tick.

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