Blaming It All On Some Damn Drone

SAY YOU'VE GOT A SPOUSE AND FAM, and a job as an airline pilot to support it all. You're coming in for a landing, in touch with the tower, smooth flight, all's well. Down on the ground, some goofy twelve year old kid launches his new Christmas drone, a shit eating grin on his befreckled face. Into the sky rises the six inch plastic bird, heading straight towards your 747 just as you're descending towards the runway. The drone, looking like some alien probe, buzzes directly in front of your window, then darts down and out, and starts making circles around your left wing, pausing to hover ever so briefly right in front of the inside left jet enigine. Your heart rate races, you scream something into the microphone at those fools on the ground, then fight the urge to jerk the stick violently to the left, seeing as how so doing would definitely ruin your text book perfect landing, and quite likely crash the plane, killing all aboard. So, you bring her in, and everybody dis-enplanes, never knowing that they were inches from death. You race into the terminal at full speed, straight into the bosses office, and start screaming. She (airport manager) looks up from her I Pad, frowns, and invites you to sit down, start over, and explain yourself, calmly if possible. At this point, the best thing for you to do, trust me, is to calm the hell down, stop screaming, get your damned temper under control, and try to talk sense. And none of this whining and griping about drones, danger, and your sorry lot in life. Look, the plane landed, right? So... why the histrionics? Need a little more attention, is that it? Anger management issues? Not been getting enough, um, you know what? Aha! You must be a normal, spoiled, self absorbed, me me me American! At least be decent enough not to blame your problems on twelve year old kids with drones. Merry Christmas!