“Do you have any cookies?” I asked.
The steward dug through the plastic bag sitting atop the drink cart.
“I’m sorry sir, we’ve run out of cookies and all we have left are peanuts.”

Not only am I seated a step away from what is quite possibly the worst smelling shitter in my history of commercial flying, I’m also a member of the lowest caste of cattle class passengers.

Oh, you don’t like peanuts? Sorry.
Oh, you have a peanut allergy? If you’re unlucky enough to have that, you surely deserve to starve!

Is this some sort of punishment for booking the flight so late and having to pay an exorbitant ticket fee? I haven’t quite figured out yet why the level of service is so inversely proportional to the price paid.