Why I Want My Money Back

I want my money back. When I first started flying, the stewardesses wore bright orange skirts, a whole tube of mascara, and go-go boots. They gave you peanuts with your soft drink, and the dinners were free, even though they tasted like plastic dressed up as chicken a la king. Now the “flight attendants” wear plain navy blue smocks, black pants, bare eyelashes, and tennis shoes. Only the first class passengers get peanuts, while they charge me $5 for a Barbie-sized meal that still tastes like plastic.

I want my money back. When I first got an allowance, candy bars were a nickel and it took five bites to eat one. Now they’re eighty-nine cents on sale and I can barely find my chocolate goo-goo bar hiding in its wrapper.

I want my money back. When I first started going to movies, they cost a quarter and you saw two of them. You could stay all day and watch five times if you wanted to and no one kicked you out. Now one show takes an hours’ salary, and I have to hide in the bathroom if I want to stay and see it again.

But I really want my money back for all those government studies that my tax dollars have funded over the years. I already know that sweat produces an odor, people without jobs have less money than the employed, and more humans than cows are afraid of flying.

I’d even settle for half my money back. Then I could get a first-class ticket and eat peanuts and plastic chicken ala king, go to a dozen movies, buy a hundred dinky candy bars, and do my own studies—about how the true meaning of life has nothing to do with money.