If the plane is overbooked, his limbs can be popped off so he fits in the overhead compartment.
I’ve stashed an access point in his chest, so he’s a wifi hotspot.
Airplane food has just enough raw, unidentifiable body parts to keep him happy.
He’s better than an air marshal at keeping the peace. No one will attempt to take over the plane or be overly obnoxious with a drooling, hungry zombie on board.
He smells better than that guy who always takes off his shoes.
The constant moaning makes him a natural white noise machine. He drowns out the screaming kid, the drunk soccer mom and the guy who just discovered politics and wants to talk about it.
If someone reclines their seat into his lap, he will crack their head like a walnut and they will never do that to anyone else, ever again.
His thumbs have fallen off, so he’s unable to tweet about any unpleasant experiences like excessive runway time or the condition of the bathroom.
His greatest wish, besides slurping brains out of your skull, is to watch “The Emoji Movie” 427 times while in flight.
If I’m not distracted by feeding him brain kibble every 90 seconds, I will realize I’m flying 30,000 feet above the planet in a metal tube going 600 mph and I will scream like a banshee with a paper cut throughout the entire flight.
Beth Bartlett 