I love these movies about airplanes in jep. It's as if Bog were a psychologist putting us in the experimental group of some cosmological study -- exactly how much repetitious nonsense can the human being take before it breaks apart. The control group is elsewhere, on some more placid planet.
None of the movies is identical to any of the others. They're all variations on a theme, but the theme is constant -- a couple of dozen people up at 30,000 feet in some mechanical contraption put together by some designer who was probably drunk at the time, and willy nilly that aluminum tube is coming down.
The variations are only there to disguise the intent of the Experimenter. Some of the movies delve into the history of the passengers and crew, often flashbacks. The focus may even be on the ground: the airport manager, the ground control, the radar operators, the guys driving the snowplow. There may be some dumb blowhard who gets in everybody's way and demands to know what the hell is going on. There may or may not be a pregnant woman or a desperately ill child aboard the airplane.
I know all this to be the case because while watching this iteration just now, I noticed that whenever I moved my joints creaked a little, and whenever I had a thought it flashed in my mind like a blown light bulb, and then the voices started again and I -- I -- I knew I was contributing my little bit to establishing the threshold of tolerance for junk. And, oh, how I regretted signing that informed consent agreement.
None of the movies is identical to any of the others. They're all variations on a theme, but the theme is constant -- a couple of dozen people up at 30,000 feet in some mechanical contraption put together by some designer who was probably drunk at the time, and willy nilly that aluminum tube is coming down.
The variations are only there to disguise the intent of the Experimenter. Some of the movies delve into the history of the passengers and crew, often flashbacks. The focus may even be on the ground: the airport manager, the ground control, the radar operators, the guys driving the snowplow. There may be some dumb blowhard who gets in everybody's way and demands to know what the hell is going on. There may or may not be a pregnant woman or a desperately ill child aboard the airplane.
I know all this to be the case because while watching this iteration just now, I noticed that whenever I moved my joints creaked a little, and whenever I had a thought it flashed in my mind like a blown light bulb, and then the voices started again and I -- I -- I knew I was contributing my little bit to establishing the threshold of tolerance for junk. And, oh, how I regretted signing that informed consent agreement.