I. I have an undeniable truth to convey to you about airplane behavior: anyone who puts his seat all the way back when there is someone behind him is boorish and self-centered, ill-equipped to function in civil society, and likely suffering from mental and sexual dysfunction as well.

II. A sight I'll not soon forget: in the St. Louis airport, I passed a massage station with two customers contorted over straddling devices. Masseuses the size of sumo wrestlers grunted over them, their fat rippling in wide waves as they used beefy hands and elbows to work over their victims, who evinced a mixture of shock and embarrassment.

III. I probably travel more than most of you, so I don't know if you've noticed; the airlines have stopped feeding us. Oh sure, they still fling a bag of pretzels your way, to be consumed with a spritz of liquid insufficient even for a Presbyterian baptism, but most no longer serve you a sandwich during mealtimes.

Now admittedly in the case of some airlines this is no great loss; I recall Continental serving a foul-smelling mystery meat embedded with brownish-yellow lettuce and shrouded in a tortilla wrap far too colorful not to arouse suspicion. But it's the stealth with which this small entitlement was eliminated that irks me. I've sat near countless travelers on mealtime flights in the last few weeks who are surprised to learn they won't be fed. They were counting on it; otherwise they would have eaten something beforehand, or brought food aboard.

Being a vindictive person by nature and nurture, it occurred to me that punishment is in order. What better way to punish the airlines for revoking our food privileges without warning than to bring aboard our messiest possible meals? What follows is a short primer on the best foods for such an undertaking:

Potato chips: The chip is overlooked as a messmaker. It crumbles, sure, but it also slathers the fingers in a greasy residue that is resilient against removal except when offered the opportunity to attach itself to fabrics, like the back of an airplane seat.

Pizza: This item offers the grease appeal of the potato chip, with the added weapon of random sauce leakage. Be sure to eat it while leaning forward.

White-cheese popcorn: The "cheese" is really a powder finer than talcum; it seeps into fabrics and establishes itself, leaving a faint white shadow impervious to brushing.

Overripe peaches: Not only will the juice run down your forearms, off your elbows, and on to both armrests, but when you are done, you can stuff the pit into the magazine pocket. A twofer.

Pork fritters: Designed by the devil himself, the pork fritter is the ultimate weapon for airplane interior defacement. Be sure to eat it without a napkin, towards the end of your flight (so the fat won't have time to congeal on your fingers). As you exit, place your hands just below the overhead luggage compartment on either side, and walk forward slowly. Depending on how fast the fumigation crews work, this can take a plane out of commission for the better part of a week.

IV. I took my family on this last trip, and had an interesting encounter with a couple of embittered feminists who sat in front of us, yapping the whole flight about the social construction of gender and the socially embedded nature of the male hierarchy. Towards the end of the flight, Eli started to cry for lack of a nap. As we stood in line waiting to exit the plane, one of them turned and said, "You should have a girl; they're better behaved." Her 200-pound love interest, smug in her tinted eyeglasses and nouveau peasant wear, nodded sagely.

What they didn't realize is that they were dealing with a Southerner, for whom the subtle insult is an art form honed at countless church socials and Sunday fried chicken dinners. So I replied: "Yes girls and boys are very different."

The patronizing smiles melted off their faces and were replaced by tight-lipped anger. They were caught in the great feminist lie, of course, which is that women are somehow both exquisitely different from men, yet somehow only "women" by virtue of oppressive social construction. This is the turd floating in the punch bowl at the lesbian faculty summer solstice mixer, if you will, and it's really bad taste to point it out.

Pointing things out in bad taste, of course, is my raison d'etre.