By 8:12 on Friday morning, I had formally exempted myself from bad luck.
The memorandum was clear. Friday the 13th could proceed as scheduled for the general public, but any inconvenience involving the president of Bank of Entitlement would require prior written approval from the president of Bank of Entitlement.
I had no intention of approving anything.
This was the third Friday the 13th of the year. At some point, repetition becomes a management issue.
I arrived wearing a navy jacket, a black shirt, and the expression of a man who had taken reasonable precautions against the calendar. I also brought a gold horseshoe for my desk. It was decorative, expensive-looking, and completely unnecessary, which made it consistent with our executive purchasing strategy.
Marlene was standing outside my office.
“Before you go in,” she said, “I should mention Friday.”
“I’ve already addressed Friday.”
“No, Friday is in your office.”
“Friday is everywhere, Marlene. That is how days work.”
She looked at me for a moment.
Then she stepped aside.
There was a black cat in my presidential chair.
Not near it. Not underneath it. In it.
He was sitting against the leather backrest with one paw draped over the arm, surveying the room as though he had recently acquired a controlling interest in the organization.
I stopped in the doorway.
The cat looked at me.
I looked at the cat.
Neither of us appeared pleased to discover competition.
“Why,” I asked carefully, “is there an animal in my chair?”
“That’s Friday.”
“You named a black cat Friday?”
“He was adopted on a Friday.”
“Well, now he has made it everyone’s problem.”
Marlene explained that she had a veterinary appointment for him later that morning. His carrier was nearby, he was perfectly comfortable, and my office had seemed like a quiet place for him to spend a few minutes.
A quiet place.
My office.
The operational center of a financial empire whose finances were admittedly fictional, but whose office furniture was very real.
I approached the desk.
“Excuse me.”
Friday blinked.
“That is the presidential chair.”
He continued sitting in it.
“I am the president.”
He turned his head toward the window.
I recognized the tactic immediately. Refusing to acknowledge a legitimate authority figure until that person becomes emotionally invested in receiving a response.
It was one of my better techniques.
I set the horseshoe on the desk and placed my Friday the 13th exemption memorandum beside it.
The cat stretched forward and put a paw on the document.
“Do not sign that,” I said.
“He’s not signing it,” Marlene replied.
“He’s assuming authority over it.”
“He’s resting his paw.”
“That is how these things begin.”
I pulled over a visitor’s chair.
“There,” I told him. “An appropriate accommodation.”
Friday looked at the smaller chair, then looked back at me.
He did not move.
I understood his objection. The visitor’s chair had no gold trim, no substantial backrest, and none of the commanding presence necessary to communicate that its occupant expected other people to solve problems.
Still, it was a generous offer.
“You cannot simply decide you’re entitled to the better chair.”
Marlene made a noise.
I turned toward her.
“Was that a comment?”
“No.”
“It sounded like a comment.”
“It was a cough.”
“Please have it documented.”
I tried a different approach.
“I appreciate your confidence,” I told Friday. “But this is a workplace. Positions are earned.”
The cat began washing his face.
He had no résumé. No appointment. No relevant experience. No evidence of having contributed anything to our organization beyond several black hairs.
And yet he had obtained the finest seat in the building within minutes of arrival.
I found his career trajectory deeply troubling.
Marlene suggested that I offer him a treat.
I considered this.
“So your solution is to compensate him for occupying property he has no right to occupy?”
“He’s a cat.”
“I understand his industry.”
She handed me a small bag.
I placed one treat beside the visitor’s chair.
Friday watched me do it.
Then he looked at the bag.
I placed a second treat beside the first.
He continued watching the bag.
“He knows there are more,” Marlene said.
“Of course he does.”
I had encountered this negotiating style before. Reject the reasonable offer. Ignore the improved offer. Maintain eye contact until the other party starts questioning whether the entire inventory should be included.
Again, one of my better techniques.
I moved the treats slightly closer to the visitor’s chair.
Friday stepped out of the presidential chair, walked over, ate both treats, and returned to the presidential chair.
The entire transaction took approximately nine seconds.
I stood very still.
“He accepted the consideration and rejected the terms.”
“You gave him treats.”
“Under an implied relocation agreement.”
“You didn’t explain that to him.”
“I pointed.”
Marlene folded her arms.
I opened a drawer and removed a fresh sheet of executive stationery.
If informal resolution had failed, we would proceed formally.
NOTICE TO VACATE PRESIDENTIAL SEATING.
I wrote that continued occupation was unauthorized. I specified that the chair was reserved for the president. I added a deadline, an acknowledgment section, and a paragraph addressing future noncompliance.
Then I presented the notice.
Friday placed his paw on it.
The same paw.
The same expression.
This time he leaned forward far enough to cover the deadline.
I looked at Marlene.
“He’s obstructing service.”
“He’s touching paper.”
“You keep describing the physical activity without acknowledging the broader implications.”
I attempted to retrieve the notice.
Friday held it in place.
I pulled gently.
He kept holding it.
We remained like that for several seconds: the president of Bank of Entitlement negotiating possession of his own stationery with a cat who had never paid rent.
I released the paper.
“This is a temporary administrative pause.”
Friday closed his eyes.
I called an emergency board meeting.
Attendance consisted of me, Marlene, and Friday, who participated from the presidential chair without having been invited.
I explained that a nonemployee had entered the premises, assumed executive accommodations, consumed company-provided benefits, ignored multiple requests, and declined to acknowledge the organization’s established leadership.
Marlene listened.
Friday appeared to fall asleep.
I finished my presentation.
“Well?” I asked.
Marlene looked at the cat.
Then she looked at me.
“He sounds qualified.”
The room became very quiet.
I reviewed the facts.
He expected the best seat. He assumed people would feed him. He ignored instructions that did not interest him. He treated inconvenience as something other people should address. He had accepted additional benefits without making the slightest concession.
Worse, he had accomplished all of this without explaining himself.
I spend a great deal of time explaining myself.
This cat had eliminated an entire category of administrative work.
I leaned back against the desk.
Perhaps I had misunderstood the situation.
Perhaps this was not an intrusion.
Perhaps it was recruitment.
I announced that, effective immediately, Friday was appointed Director of Unreasonable Expectations.
It was an unpaid position.
The benefits included temporary office access, discretionary treats, and the right to ignore communications he considered beneath him.
Marlene pointed out that these were the exact benefits he had already obtained.
“Which demonstrates,” I explained, “that he successfully negotiated his compensation package before accepting the title.”
I signed the appointment.
Friday put his paw on it.
Finally, an agreement.
I retrieved a spare chair from the corner and positioned it beside the desk. It was smaller, slightly uneven, and made an unpleasant sound when I sat down.
Friday remained in the presidential chair.
I informed Marlene that this arrangement demonstrated my commitment to developing new leadership.
She said, “Of course.”
I did not appreciate the tone.
At the appointed time, she picked Friday up, placed him in his carrier, and prepared to leave for the veterinarian.
Just like that.
No memorandum. No negotiation. No board meeting.
“You could have done that the entire time?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you?”
She looked at the appointment letter on my desk.
“You seemed to be handling it.”
After they left, I returned to my chair and assessed the morning.
I had lost control of my office, surrendered treats, issued two ineffective directives, convened a board meeting, created a position, and spent part of the morning sitting on inferior furniture.
The cat had taken a nap.
Naturally, I recorded the entire matter as a successful executive recruitment exercise.
There was only one remaining problem.
Friday had left black fur on my jacket.
I considered sending an invoice.
Then I pictured him receiving it, looking directly at whoever delivered it, and slowly pushing it off the desk.
I put the invoice away.
For the first time in my professional life, I knew exactly how my own correspondence would be received.
Friday the 13th had delivered a worthy opponent.
Unfortunately, he had also taken the better chair.
BASED ON A TRUE STORY FROM AN EXPERIENCE ON 11/5/2026
I’ve always believed there’s someone out there for everyone.
A soulmate.
A perfect match.
Someone who understands your deepest feelings, shares your values, and sees the world the same way you do.
For some people, it’s about kindness.
For others, intelligence.
A sense of humor.
Shared interests.
Physical attraction.
For me?
Entitlement.
I want someone who looks at a perfectly reasonable company policy and immediately wonders why it should apply to her.
Someone who believes the word “no” is simply an invitation to continue negotiating.
Someone who understands that wanting something and deserving something are essentially the same thing.
Someone who doesn’t allow minor inconveniences like product descriptions, available features, or the laws of mathematics to interfere with her expectations.
I thought such a woman might exist.
I just never imagined she’d find me through Etsy.
And certainly not by purchasing a $14.99 novelty credit card.
But love works in mysterious ways.
Especially when the prospective love of your life claims to be a quadrillionaire.
Let me explain.
As you may know, I am the President of the Bank of Entitlement.
An institution dedicated to recognizing the extraordinary needs of people who believe the world owes them something.
We specialize in novelty banking merchandise.
Fake credit cards.
Novelty checks.
Imaginary wealth.
Real laughter.
Our products are designed for people who appreciate the absurdity of entitlement.
We are not an actual bank.
We do not issue functioning credit cards.
We do not provide real checking accounts.
We do not extend credit.
We do not manage deposits.
And, despite repeated requests, we do not offer unlimited imaginary wealth convertible into actual United States currency.
A disappointing limitation.
I know.
But even my institution has boundaries.
Occasionally.
Then she arrived.
For privacy purposes, I’ll call her Dr. Jane Doe.
A distinguished title.
A mysterious woman.
And, as I would soon discover, a financial visionary operating on a level that conventional banking simply cannot comprehend.
She purchased one of our novelty credit cards.
Price: $14.99.
A reasonable investment in imaginary financial prestige.
The product offered two personalization options.
A cardholder name, limited to twenty-one characters.
And an entitlement date.
That’s it.
Simple.
Elegant.
Understandable.
Or so we thought.
Dr. Doe submitted three initials for her cardholder name.
She supplied an entitlement date.
Our production team reviewed the information.
Then contacted her to clarify the personalization.
A courtesy.
A professional gesture.
An attempt to ensure accuracy.
We even delayed processing while awaiting her response.
She didn’t respond.
At first, I was concerned.
Had something happened?
Was she traveling?
Was she busy?
Had her quadrillion-dollar empire experienced a liquidity event?
Perhaps she was occupied negotiating the acquisition of Switzerland.
I couldn’t know.
Eventually, the order was fulfilled using the information she had actually submitted.
Three initials.
The requested entitlement date.
Exactly as advertised.
We even included complimentary novelty checks as a courtesy.
Generous.
Thoughtful.
Completely unnecessary.
And that’s when the romance began.
She contacted us.
The card wasn’t what she wanted.
Apparently, she expected considerably more.
An actual EMV chip.
Visa or Mastercard branding.
A security code.
Additional personal information.
Professional credentials.
Business identifiers.
And an expiration date.
Not an entitlement date.
An expiration date.
On a novelty card that doesn’t expire because it doesn’t actually do anything.
I stared at the message.
Then read it again.
Then slowly leaned back in my chair.
My heart began racing.
Who was this woman?
Where had she been all my life?
She had purchased a gag gift and expected an entirely different product.
Not just different printing.
Different functionality.
Different branding.
Different specifications.
Potentially an entirely different financial institution.
All for $14.99.
Magnificent.
I whispered to myself:
“She’s perfect.”
Then I read the next part.
She wanted a replacement.
Free.
And she was perfectly willing to keep the original card, which she indicated she liked.
I stood up.
Walked to the window.
Looked toward the heavens.
And whispered:
“Dear God. Is this the one?”
Because this wasn’t ordinary entitlement.
This was advanced entitlement.
Professional-grade entitlement.
The kind of entitlement that requires absolutely no supporting evidence beyond personal preference.
She wanted to keep the product she liked.
Receive another product she hadn’t ordered.
Pay nothing additional.
And have us absorb the cost of manufacturing something we don’t even sell.
I was in love.
Not actual love, of course.
I hadn’t met her.
I didn’t know anything meaningful about her personally.
But philosophically?
We were already discussing marriage.
I imagined our first date.
We’d arrive at a restaurant without reservations.
Demand the best table.
Order everything on the menu.
Then explain that because we’d only eaten some of it, we should receive a partial refund.
She’d ask for a complimentary dessert.
I’d demand the manager waive the service charge.
We’d look into each other’s eyes.
And simultaneously say:
“That’s not what I expected.”
Beautiful.
Absolutely beautiful.
Then came another revelation.
She informed us that she was a quadrillionaire.
A quadrillionaire.
I had to sit down.
For those unfamiliar with the number, a quadrillion is one thousand trillion.
An amount so large that most people only encounter it while discussing national debt projections or particularly ambitious science-fiction villains.
And here was a woman claiming that level of wealth while disputing a $14.99 novelty credit card.
Incredible.
Financial discipline.
Extraordinary attention to detail.
The willingness to protect every dollar, even when allegedly possessing one quadrillion of them.
I grabbed my calculator.
Fourteen dollars and ninety-nine cents divided by one quadrillion.
The result was so small that my calculator practically refused to acknowledge its existence.
And yet she was fighting for it.
That’s commitment.
That’s principle.
That’s a woman who knows her worth.
Or at least has assigned herself a very impressive numerical value.
Then she explained that she managed her own bank.
My heart skipped another beat.
A banker.
I was a banker.
Well.
A novelty banker.
But still.
Two financial executives.
Two institutions.
Two people who understood the power of declaring themselves entitled.
I began imagining a merger.
BANK OF ENTITLEMENT INTERNATIONAL QUADRILLIONAIRE HOLDINGS.
Assets under management:
Imaginary.
Customer expectations:
Unlimited.
Regulatory compliance:
Let’s not get distracted.
Then came her proposed expiration date.
05/15/9099.
The year 9099.
I stared.
Then stared harder.
Most credit cards expire after a few years.
Hers would apparently remain valid for more than seven thousand.
I admired the ambition.
A woman planning for the long term.
Very long term.
The kind of long term that requires assuming civilization, banking networks, and plastic cards will all survive until the ninety-first century.
I imagined our anniversary.
Year 9099.
Still together.
Still arguing about the original $14.99.
Romantic.
Then the correspondence continued.
Our customer service team explained that the card was a novelty product.
That it had fixed specifications.
That it didn’t offer the requested features.
That the original card had been manufactured exactly as ordered.
That we had attempted to clarify her instructions before production.
And that a complimentary replacement was not warranted.
A perfectly reasonable response.
Which, naturally, she rejected.
I admired her persistence.
A lesser customer might have accepted the explanation.
A less committed individual might have read the product listing.
A person lacking vision might have acknowledged that a novelty credit card cannot magically become a legitimate financial instrument.
Not Dr. Doe.
No.
She pressed forward.
She wanted her full professional name.
Business initials.
Additional identifiers.
Modified wording.
And an expiration date.
Never mind the twenty-one-character limit.
Twenty-one characters are merely a suggestion to someone whose financial aspirations extend to fifteen digits.
Actually, sixteen.
But who’s counting?
Apparently, we were.
Because the card still had a twenty-one-character limit.
We explained this again.
And again.
And again.
Then she delivered a statement so profound that I immediately considered having it engraved above the entrance to our corporate headquarters.
“the BANK IS ENTITLED and WEALTH with no limitations.”
I read those words.
Slowly.
Carefully.
With reverence.
The bank is entitled.
And wealth.
With no limitations.
I didn’t completely understand the grammar.
But I understood the spirit.
This woman wasn’t merely a customer.
She was a movement.
A revolution.
A walking declaration that limitations exist only for people willing to acknowledge them.
I wiped away an imaginary tear.
Then asked my staff to review the message.
Three of us examined the correspondence.
Three adults.
Multiple years of combined customer service experience.
And not one of us could confidently explain everything she was trying to communicate.
This was extraordinary.
Most customers are entitled within the boundaries of understandable language.
She had transcended those boundaries.
She was operating in an entirely new dimension.
A dimension where sentences are optional, punctuation is negotiable, and the meaning of words depends entirely on the level of personal conviction behind them.
Then came another message.
And this one deserves special recognition.
She wrote:
“I understand your business policy INACCURATELY communications forecasts as combinations by nominations and sternations the populations and accurately affordable the business CRITERIA not justifications compelling uniformity versus conformity. Thanks and where are the checks . I never received any notices and ESCALATION the ETSY from this era and error”
I stared at my screen.
Then read it again.
Then once more.
I understood approximately seven words.
But what words they were.
Communications.
Forecasts.
Nominations.
Populations.
Criteria.
Uniformity.
Conformity.
This wasn’t a customer complaint.
This was a United Nations resolution being transmitted from another galaxy.
I called an emergency meeting.
Three of us reviewed the message.
We examined the sentence structure.
Considered the possible meanings.
Discussed the context.
Attempted to identify the actual request.
After considerable analysis, we reached one unanimous conclusion.
She wanted to know where her novelty checks were.
Success.
A breakthrough.
We had decoded the message.
Unfortunately, the tracking information had already been provided through Etsy.
The same Etsy account she was using to send us messages.
The same portal that displayed her order history.
The same platform where shipping updates were available.
Apparently, she had discovered Etsy’s messaging function but had not yet fully explored its other revolutionary capabilities.
Like checking an order.
Or viewing tracking information.
Or reading a product description.
I admired her selectivity.
Why waste time reviewing information already available when you can demand that someone else retrieve it for you?
That’s not laziness.
That’s delegation.
Executive-level delegation.
I was increasingly convinced we were destined for one another.
Then she informed us that our Facebook page was unavailable.
We provided the correct link.
Explained how to find it.
And invited her to join the conversation.
After all, we were documenting the experience, with her identifying information concealed.
And I wanted her to see the public discussion.
Not because I wished to embarrass her.
But because I genuinely believed she deserved recognition.
The world needed to know that someone had finally achieved a level of entitlement that made even the Bank of Entitlement question its own standards.
Then the tone changed.
She accused the company of being rude.
Shrewd.
Ignorant.
She objected to commentary about her business affairs.
She insisted that her accomplishments and professional status were not ours to question.
And on that particular point, I agreed.
Her professional accomplishments weren’t relevant to the transaction.
Neither was her claimed wealth.
Neither was her bank.
Neither was the future of the global financial system.
The only relevant question was whether the $14.99 novelty card had been produced according to the information submitted.
It had.
We had the original order.
We had the personalization details.
We had the correspondence.
We had the product specifications.
We had even provided photographic evidence showing exactly what had been requested.
But she remained undeterred.
She declared that a replacement was her choice.
Her choice.
I read that sentence aloud.
Then stood up and applauded.
Alone.
In my office.
Because finally, someone had expressed the central philosophy of entitlement with breathtaking clarity.
If I choose a particular outcome, the other party should be obligated to provide it.
Beautiful.
Wrong.
But beautiful.
She had selected “replacement” as her preferred resolution.
Therefore, in her mind, replacement was no longer a request.
It was an instruction.
A command.
A royal decree.
The seller’s agreement was apparently unnecessary.
I imagined her ordering a small pizza.
Receiving a small pizza.
Then declaring that she’d prefer a large pizza.
Free.
While keeping the small one.
And when the restaurant refused, she’d simply explain that she’d selected “large” as her preferred resolution.
Case closed.
I was impressed.
I was inspired.
I was slightly frightened.
And then something happened that changed everything.
I realized she wasn’t merely entitled.
She was more entitled than me.
Me.
Hot Josh.
The man who once attempted to negotiate hotel checkout times.
The man who questioned movie theater armrest ownership.
The man who treated a coffee shop as commercial office space.
The man who investigated unlimited breadsticks until his digestive system threatened litigation.
The man who tracked a delivery truck around town for nine hours because he wanted a phone charging cable.
I had spent years perfecting the art of entitlement.
And this woman had arrived with a $14.99 purchase and completely destroyed my record.
She hadn’t merely raised the bar.
She’d demanded a replacement bar.
With additional features.
Free.
And insisted that the original bar be returned to her as a complimentary gift.
I knew what had to be done.
I called an emergency meeting of the Bank of Entitlement Board of Directors.
Attendance:
Me.
President.
Chairman.
Chief Executive Officer.
Acting Director of Customer Expectations.
And, for purposes of maintaining a quorum, my reflection in the conference room window.
The meeting was called to order.
I presented the evidence.
The original order.
Three initials.
One entitlement date.
The unanswered clarification request.
The correctly manufactured novelty card.
The complimentary checks.
The demands for features we didn’t offer.
The quadrillionaire declaration.
The year 9099.
The repeated refund and replacement demands.
The increasingly elaborate correspondence.
And, of course, the unforgettable statement:
“the BANK IS ENTITLED and WEALTH with no limitations.”
I looked around the conference room.
Silence.
My reflection appeared deeply moved.
I proposed a motion.
That Dr. Jane Doe be recognized as the single most extraordinary example of consumer entitlement encountered by the Bank of Entitlement during the 2026 calendar year.
The motion was seconded.
By me.
The vote was unanimous.
Two to zero.
My reflection abstained due to a potential conflict of interest.
The decision was final.
We had a winner.
I immediately ordered the creation of an award.
Not an ordinary certificate.
Not a generic participation trophy.
Something worthy of this historic achievement.
A magnificent gold-plated trophy.
A crown.
A miniature novelty credit card.
A tiny stack of imaginary checks.
And a pedestal bearing the inscription:
BANK OF ENTITLEMENT
MOST ENTITLED CUSTOMER OF 2026
DR. JANE DOE
FOR OUTSTANDING ACHIEVEMENT IN EXPECTING EVERYTHING WHILE ACCEPTING NOTHING
I also considered including the phrase:
QUADRILLIONAIRE DIVISION
But the engraver informed me that the available space was limited.
Naturally, I demanded that he add it anyway.
He refused.
I understood.
Painfully.
For the first time, I knew exactly how our customer felt.
Then came the award ceremony.
I rented a ballroom.
Well.
I imagined renting a ballroom.
This is a novelty bank.
Our entertainment budget is largely theoretical.
But in my mind, the ceremony was magnificent.
Golden chandeliers.
Red carpet.
A twenty-piece orchestra.
Champagne fountains.
An audience filled with customer service representatives, Etsy sellers, small-business owners, and people who had spent their entire careers explaining that advertised product specifications actually mean something.
The lights dimmed.
A spotlight illuminated the stage.
I approached the podium.
“Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished guests, fellow sufferers of unreasonable expectations…”
The audience erupted in applause.
I raised my hand.
“Tonight, we recognize an individual who has demonstrated extraordinary dedication to the principles upon which this institution was founded.”
More applause.
“An individual who refused to allow the limitations of a $14.99 novelty product to interfere with her vision.”
Standing ovation.
“A woman who believed a novelty credit card should possess features not advertised, not manufactured, and not available.”
Thunderous applause.
“A woman who, despite claiming a personal fortune of one quadrillion dollars, remained unwavering in her pursuit of a complimentary replacement.”
The crowd went wild.
“And most importantly, a woman who taught us that selecting a preferred resolution is apparently the same as receiving authorization to demand it.”
I paused.
Looked toward the audience.
And smiled.
“Tonight, I am honored to present the Bank of Entitlement’s highest distinction…”
The orchestra began playing.
A golden curtain rose.
Confetti fell from the ceiling.
“…the MOST ENTITLED CUSTOMER OF 2026 AWARD!“
The room exploded.
Cheers.
Applause.
Standing ovations.
Someone in the back began crying.
Possibly a customer service manager.
I continued.
“Please join me in congratulating our distinguished recipient, Dr. Jane Doe!”
In my imagination, she approached the stage.
Elegant.
Confident.
Absolutely convinced that the award should have been presented sooner.
I handed her the trophy.
She examined it.
Turned it around.
Studied the inscription.
Then looked at me.
“Is this real gold?”
I smiled.
“No. It’s novelty gold.”
She frowned.
“I requested real gold.”
My heart fluttered.
There she was.
My soulmate.
I smiled.
“Of course you did.”
She examined the trophy again.
“Can you replace it?”
The audience fell silent.
I looked into her eyes.
She looked into mine.
Two souls.
One philosophy.
Unlimited expectations.
Zero concessions.
I leaned toward the microphone.
“Madam, you have just demonstrated exactly why you deserve this award.”
The crowd erupted again.
I continued.
“And because I am the President of the Bank of Entitlement, I am personally entitled to make the final determination regarding all awards, refunds, replacements, redesigns, modifications, and imaginary financial instruments issued by this institution.”
She waited.
I smiled.
Then delivered the final ruling.
“Your award is APPROVED.”
Applause.
“Your title as Most Entitled Customer of 2026 is CONFIRMED.”
More applause.
“Your extraordinary contributions to the advancement of entitlement are hereby recognized for all eternity, including through May 15, 9099.”
The orchestra swelled.
I raised one finger.
“However, your refund request remains DENIED.”
Silence.
“Your replacement request remains DENIED.”
I paused.
“Your request for additional card features remains DENIED.”
The audience leaned forward.
“Your request to redesign the product remains DENIED.”
Then I smiled.
“And because I am entitled to have the last word…”
I leaned closer to the microphone.
“DENIED.”
The orchestra exploded into its final triumphant chord.
Confetti rained down.
The audience stood.
I raised the trophy above my head.
And for one glorious moment, I realized something.
I had finally met someone whose sense of entitlement rivaled my own.
Someone who understood the beauty of unreasonable expectations.
Someone who refused to accept that reality might occasionally impose limitations.
Someone who believed the universe should accommodate her preferences.
Perhaps she really was my soulmate.
But there was one problem.
Two people who are always entitled to get their way cannot possibly have a successful relationship.
Because eventually, one of them has to compromise.
And neither of us was qualified.
So I made the only reasonable decision.
I would admire her from a distance.
Respect her accomplishments in the field of entitlement.
Honor her with the highest award my fictional financial institution could bestow.
And maintain a strict separation between romance and customer service.
Because love may be unconditional.
But refunds are not.
The lesson?
Hot Josh has spent years believing he’s entitled to the best of everything.
The best service.
The best treatment.
The best opportunities.
The last word.
But sometimes, someone comes along who reminds you that there are levels to this profession.
And this woman?
She’s in a league of her own.
She purchased a novelty credit card.
Expected a real financial instrument.
Requested features that didn’t exist.
Wanted a free replacement.
Intended to keep the original.
Claimed to be a quadrillionaire.
Proposed an expiration date in the year 9099.
And refused to accept the word “no.”
For that, she has earned the admiration of Hot Josh and the highest honor the Bank of Entitlement can provide.
Congratulations, Dr. Jane Doe.
You are officially the Bank of Entitlement’s MOST ENTITLED CUSTOMER OF 2026.
Your trophy is imaginary.
Your title is honorary.
Your quadrillions remain unverified.
Your novelty card remains exactly what you ordered.
And your refund?
DENIED.
Your replacement?
DENIED.
Your appeal to my romantic sensibilities?
Under consideration.
But the last word?
That’s mine.
Because I’m Hot Josh.
President of the Bank of Entitlement.
And if anyone is entitled to the last word around here…
Not even because of the opportunity to watch grown adults spend hundreds of dollars making their houses look abandoned.
No.
Halloween is special because it’s the one night of the year when society collectively agrees that strangers should distribute free merchandise to people who knock on their doors.
An extraordinary business model.
No purchase necessary.
No loyalty program.
No subscription.
Just show up.
Request candy.
Receive candy.
Beautiful.
Naturally, I had concerns about how the program was being administered.
It started at 5:47 p.m.
I was standing on my front porch admiring my Halloween decorations.
Fog machine.
Orange lights.
Three skeletons.
A giant inflatable pumpkin.
And a motion-activated witch that screamed every time somebody walked past.
Excellent.
I’d spent $286 transforming my front yard into a temporary supernatural attraction.
Worth every penny.
Then I noticed something across the street.
My neighbor was handing out full-size candy bars.
Full.
Size.
Not the tiny ones.
Not the individually wrapped pieces that require six servings to equal one respectable chocolate bar.
Actual full-size candy.
I watched a child approach.
“Trick or treat!”
My neighbor smiled.
Handed over a full-size chocolate bar.
The child gasped.
Understandable.
Then another child approached.
Another full-size bar.
Then another.
And another.
I stood there.
Processing.
My own candy bowl contained miniature chocolates.
Perfectly good miniature chocolates.
But miniature nonetheless.
Suddenly, my entire Halloween operation looked underfunded.
I walked across the street.
“Good evening.”
My neighbor smiled.
“Hey, Josh! Happy Halloween!”
“Happy Halloween.”
I looked at the candy bowl.
Then at him.
Then back at the candy bowl.
“Full-size bars?”
“Yep!”
“Interesting.”
He smiled.
“Kids love them.”
“Of course they do.”
I folded my arms.
“Have you considered the economic consequences?”
He blinked.
“What?”
“The economic consequences.”
“Of candy?”
“Of distributing premium merchandise without coordinating with neighboring providers.”
He laughed.
“Josh, it’s Halloween.”
“Exactly. A highly competitive seasonal marketplace.”
Important enough that I selected two-day shipping.
Not three-day shipping.
Not standard shipping.
Two days.
Because patience is a virtue I prefer other people to practice.
The package was scheduled to arrive Thursday.
Excellent.
I woke up at 7:02 a.m.
Checked my phone.
And there it was.
OUT FOR DELIVERY
Three beautiful words.
Out.
For.
Delivery.
I smiled.
My package was on its way.
I imagined a delivery truck pulling out of a warehouse.
A driver gripping the steering wheel.
My package sitting securely in the back.
Possibly surrounded by other packages.
But clearly the most important one.
At 7:45, I checked the tracking page.
Still out for delivery.
At 8:15, I checked again.
No change.
At 8:47, I refreshed.
Nothing.
This was concerning.
At 9:03, I received an update.
YOUR PACKAGE IS EXPECTED BY 8:00 P.M.
Eight.
P.M.
I stared at the screen.
That was nearly eleven hours away.
What exactly did “out for delivery” mean?
Was it out sightseeing?
Visiting relatives?
Taking a scenic tour of the metropolitan area?
I opened the tracking map.
There was a little truck icon.
Beautiful.
Technology.
Transparency.
Accountability.
The truck appeared approximately four miles away.
Four miles.
I could drive there in eight minutes.
Possibly six.
Depending on traffic.
And enthusiasm.
I watched the icon.
It moved.
Closer.
Closer.
Then turned left.
Away from me.
I sat upright.
“Where are you going?”
The truck continued moving.
In the wrong direction.
I refreshed the page.
Still wrong.
I considered whether the driver had received incorrect instructions.
Perhaps the navigation system was malfunctioning.
Perhaps the truck was lost.
Perhaps the company hadn’t explained that my package was the priority.
I called customer service.
“Thank you for calling. How can I help you?”
“Yes. I’m calling about a package.”
“Of course. Do you have the tracking number?”
I provided it.
She checked.
“Your package is out for delivery.”
“I know.”
“Great! It should arrive by eight tonight.”
“That’s the problem.”
She paused.
“What’s the problem?”
“It’s currently 9:26 in the morning.”
“Yes?”
“And the package is four miles away.”
“Okay.”
“So why isn’t it here?”
She explained that drivers follow assigned routes.
Routes.
Interesting.
Apparently my delivery was being governed by a prearranged sequence of events.
“Can the driver change the route?”
“Unfortunately, we can’t request that.”
“Why?”
“Because the driver has many deliveries to complete.”
I nodded.
“Understood.”
Then asked the obvious question.
“How many of those deliveries are mine?”
She paused.
“Just this one, I believe.”
“Exactly.”
Silence.
Powerful silence.
I continued.
“So the driver is prioritizing packages belonging to strangers over a package belonging to me.”
“Sir, all customers are important.”
I smiled.
“Of course. But some customers are currently on the phone.”
She laughed.
I didn’t.
Well.
Maybe a little.
“Can I speak with the driver?”
“I’m sorry, but we can’t connect customers directly with drivers.”
“Can you send a message?”
“No.”
“Can I wave at the truck if I see it?”
She laughed again.
“You’re welcome to wave.”
Progress.
At least one communication channel remained available.
I thanked her.
Hung up.
And returned to the tracking map.
10:14.
The truck was now six miles away.
Six.
It had increased the distance between us.
This was no longer delivery.
This was avoidance.
I made coffee.
Opened my laptop.
Attempted to work.
Failed.
Checked tracking.
11:02.
Still out for delivery.
11:47.
No change.
12:16.
The truck was three miles away.
I stood up.
Finally.
The operation was back on track.
Then the truck turned again.
Away.
I stared at the screen.
“Unbelievable.”
At 1:30, I decided to take matters into my own hands.
I walked outside.
Looked down the street.
No truck.
Looked the other direction.
No truck.
A postal vehicle passed.
Wrong company.
I waved anyway.
The driver waved back.
At least somebody understood customer relations.
At 2:18, I received another notification.
YOUR DRIVER IS MAKING DELIVERIES NEARBY.
Nearby.
A wonderfully vague word.
Nearby could mean two houses.
Two streets.
Two towns.
Apparently geography had become subjective.
I refreshed the map.
The truck was less than a mile away.
Excellent.
I stood by the front window.
Waiting.
Watching.
Ready.
Then I saw it.
A delivery truck.
Coming down the street.
My heart raced.
It approached.
Slowed.
And stopped.
Across the street.
At my neighbor’s house.
I watched the driver exit.
Carry a package to the porch.
Take a photo.
Return to the truck.
Then drive away.
Without stopping at my house.
I couldn’t believe it.
He had been right there.
Right.
There.
I stepped outside.
The truck disappeared around the corner.
I considered chasing it.
Then remembered I was wearing slippers.
And had absolutely no intention of exercising for a delivery.
I returned inside.
Called customer service again.
A different representative answered.
“How may I help you?”
“I believe your driver has overlooked my residence.”
She checked the tracking.
“Your package is still out for delivery.”
“Yes, but he just delivered to my neighbor.”
“Okay.”
“And didn’t deliver to me.”
“That can happen depending on how the packages are organized in the truck.”
I froze.
“Organized?”
“Yes.”
“So you’re telling me my package may be physically inside the truck, but the driver can’t deliver it because it’s not in the correct organizational sequence?”
“That’s possible.”
I leaned back.
This was extraordinary.
A truck.
A package.
A house.
All within approximately fifty feet of one another.
And somehow logistics had defeated common sense.
I thanked her.
Again.
At 4:07, the truck returned to my neighborhood.
I saw it on the map.
Two streets away.
Then one.
Then finally…
My street.
I stood.
Walked to the front door.
Opened it.
And waited.
The truck approached.
Slowed.
Stopped.
The driver stepped out.
Holding a package.
My package.
I smiled.
He walked toward me.
“Good afternoon!”
“Good afternoon.”
He handed me the box.
“Here you go.”
I accepted it.
Then looked at my watch.
4:13 p.m.
Nine hours and eleven minutes after my first tracking check.
I looked at him.
“Busy day?”
He laughed.
“Very.”
“I noticed.”
He smiled.
“Been waiting for this?”
“Since approximately seven this morning.”
He laughed again.
“Well, it’s here now.”
I nodded.
“Yes. But I have a question.”
“Sure.”
“Why did you deliver to my neighbor six hours ago and not stop here?”
He looked confused.
“Six hours ago?”
“Earlier this afternoon.”
“Oh. Different packages are loaded for different sections of the route.”
I nodded.
“Interesting.”
He continued.
“We follow the route the system gives us.”
There it was again.
The system.
The invisible authority responsible for everything.
I considered explaining my entire morning.
The tracking.
The phone calls.
The map.
The emotional journey.
Then I looked at the driver.
He was sweating.
Tired.
Clearly working hard.
And still had a truck full of packages.
I stopped.
“Well, thank you.”
He smiled.
“You’re welcome. Have a good one!”
He returned to the truck.
I carried the package inside.
Placed it on the kitchen counter.
Grabbed a pair of scissors.
Opened the box.
Removed the packing material.
And finally revealed the item I’d been waiting for all day.
A phone charging cable.
A charging cable.
Not a medical device.
Not emergency supplies.
Not a critical replacement part.
A cable.
For a phone that was already charging perfectly well using another cable.
I stared at it.
Then at the clock.
Then at the shipping box.
I had spent nine hours monitoring the movement of a charging cable.
Called customer service twice.
Watched a delivery truck travel around town.
And nearly confronted a driver over a product I didn’t actually need immediately.
I picked up the cable.
Examined it.
Then plugged it into my phone.
It worked.
Beautifully.
Exactly like the old one.
I sat down.
Opened my laptop.
And returned to the work I’d been neglecting all day.
Then my phone buzzed.
HOW WAS YOUR DELIVERY EXPERIENCE?
A survey.
Of course.
I opened it.
Five stars.
I selected five.
The driver had done his job.
The package arrived on time.
Nothing was damaged.
Everything was exactly as promised.
Then I saw the comment box.
I smiled.
And typed:
Delivery was successful. However, I recommend reconsidering the definition of “out for delivery” for customers who interpret that phrase as “coming directly to my house.”
I submitted it.
Then looked at the charging cable.
And laughed.
The lesson?
Hot Josh believes that when a package is out for delivery, it should be delivered.
Preferably immediately.
Preferably before breakfast.
Preferably without visiting seventeen other houses first.
But sometimes the world doesn’t revolve around your package.
Even when you’ve spent the entire day tracking it like a missing person.
Everything should look like it belongs to someone who has his life together.
Whether I actually have my life together is a separate discussion.
So when I noticed a bird had deposited something unpleasant directly in the middle of my windshield, I took it personally.
Not because birds understand property rights.
Clearly, they don’t.
But because this particular bird had selected my vehicle from an entire parking lot.
An intentional act.
Possibly targeted.
I drove to the automatic car wash.
The sign advertised three packages.
BASIC WASH: $9
DELUXE WASH: $14
ULTIMATE PREMIUM: $18
Naturally, I selected Ultimate Premium.
I’m not a basic person.
And I refuse to subject my car to basic treatment.
The screen displayed my purchase.
ULTIMATE PREMIUM WASH
CERAMIC PROTECTION
TRIPLE FOAM
SPOT-FREE RINSE
TIRE SHINE
MAXIMUM CLEAN
Maximum.
An important word.
I paid.
The gate opened.
I drove forward.
A mechanical voice instructed me to stop.
I stopped.
Then it instructed me to place the vehicle in neutral.
I complied.
Then it told me to release the brake.
I complied again.
For eighteen dollars, I was receiving an astonishing number of instructions.
The conveyor belt pulled my car forward.
The machinery came alive.
Water blasted the windshield.
Colorful foam covered the windows.
Huge brushes spun around the vehicle.
Blue lights.
Purple lights.
Green lights.
Honestly, it was more entertaining than some concerts I’ve attended.
For approximately four minutes, I sat inside a vibrating disco operated by industrial plumbing.
Then the dryers activated.
Massive jets of air blasted the vehicle.
The car emerged.
Clean.
Shiny.
Beautiful.
Almost.
I pulled into the inspection area.
Stepped out.
Walked around the car.
The tires looked fantastic.
The paint gleamed.
The windows sparkled.
Then I saw it.
The bird dropping.
Still there.
Smaller.
But there.
Directly in the middle of my windshield.
Unbelievable.
I stared at it.
It stared back.
This bird had apparently used military-grade adhesive.
I returned to the payment kiosk.
An attendant approached.
“Everything okay?”
“No.”
He looked concerned.
“What’s wrong?”
I pointed toward my windshield.
“Your maximum clean appears to have a minimum exception.”
He looked at the spot.
“Oh, yeah. Sometimes those need a little extra attention.”
I nodded.
“Interesting.”
He waited.
I continued.
“So the Ultimate Premium package doesn’t remove everything?”
“Not always.”
“Then why is it called Ultimate?”
He laughed.
“That’s just the name of the package.”
“Ah.”
I folded my arms.
“So Ultimate is more of an aspiration.”
He smiled.
“I guess you could say that.”
“And Maximum Clean?”
“That’s our top wash.”
“Not maximum cleanliness?”
He laughed again.
“Sir, it’s a car wash.”
I looked toward the machinery.
Then at the windshield.
Then back at him.
“I paid eighteen dollars to have a machine attack my vehicle with approximately six thousand gallons of enthusiasm, and one bird has defeated the entire operation.”
He was laughing now.
I wasn’t finished.
“I’d like a second wash.”
“Sure. We can run you through again.”
Excellent.
A reasonable solution.
I returned to my car.
Drove around the building.
Entered the wash again.
The machinery activated.
More water.
More foam.
More spinning brushes.
More colorful lights.
I was beginning to recognize the sequence.
By the second purple light, I felt like a season-ticket holder.
The dryers blasted.
The gate opened.
I emerged.
Pulled over.
Inspected.
And there it was.
Still there.
The bird dropping had survived two premium washes.
At this point, I was no longer dealing with dirt.
I was dealing with an opponent.
I returned to the attendant.
He saw me approaching.
His smile disappeared.
“Still there?”
I nodded.
“Still there.”
He walked over.
Looked at the windshield.
Then did something extraordinary.
He took a damp microfiber cloth.
Wiped the spot.
Once.
And it disappeared.
Completely.
I stared.
He stared.
We both stared at the clean windshield.
Four seconds.
One cloth.
Problem solved.
I looked toward the enormous automatic car wash.
The conveyor belt.
The spinning brushes.
The colorful foam.
The high-pressure jets.
The industrial dryers.
Then back at the attendant.
“So…”
He was already smiling.
“…you’re telling me the eighteen-dollar Ultimate Premium system was defeated by a damp rag?”
He burst out laughing.
I remained composed.
Externally.
Internally, I was reviewing every decision that had brought me here.
He handed me the cloth.
“Sometimes you just need to wipe it.”
I nodded slowly.
“Revolutionary.”
He laughed harder.
I looked at the cloth.
Then at the windshield.
Then at the car wash.
“I have a suggestion.”
“What’s that?”
“Add a nineteen-dollar package.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“What would that include?”
I held up the cloth.
“This.”
He nearly doubled over laughing.
I continued.
“Call it Ultimate Premium Plus.”
“Okay.”
“Include everything from the eighteen-dollar package.”
“Right.”
“Then have a human being inspect the vehicle and remove anything the machine missed.”
He nodded.
“Actually, that’s not a bad idea.”
I smiled.
Finally.
Recognition.
“Of course it isn’t.”
I handed back the cloth.
Then remembered something.
“One more question.”
“Sure.”
“Do you offer a satisfaction guarantee?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent.”
“Are you satisfied now?”
I looked at my spotless windshield.
Then at my gleaming car.
Then at the attendant.
“Almost.”
He sighed.
“What else?”
“I’ve now been through the car wash twice.”
“Yes.”
“And spent approximately twenty minutes resolving this.”
“Okay.”
“Does that qualify me for a loyalty reward?”
He laughed.
“No.”
“Complimentary air freshener?”
He considered it.
Then reached into a small box.
Pulled out a pine-scented air freshener.
And handed it to me.
“Here.”
Victory.
At last.
I thanked him.
Returned to my car.
And drove away.
The vehicle looked magnificent.
The windshield was spotless.
The tires gleamed.
And a tiny cardboard tree swung proudly from my rearview mirror.
I felt accomplished.
Then, at the very next traffic light, something landed on my hood.
SPLAT.
I looked up.
A bird sat on the traffic signal.
Watching.
I stared at it.
The bird stared back.
I slowly lowered my window.
“Don’t even think about it.”
The bird flew away.
I looked at my hood.
Another dropping.
Fresh.
Prominent.
Absolutely deliberate.
I considered turning around.
Then I looked at the air freshener.
Smelled the artificial pine.
And made a decision.
Some battles aren’t worth fighting.
Especially when your opponent can fly.
The lesson?
Hot Josh believes paying for the Ultimate Premium experience should produce ultimate premium results.
But sometimes the most sophisticated technology in the world can’t replace a little common sense.
And sometimes, no matter how much you pay, a bird still gets the final word.
Not early enough to sit through twenty minutes of advertisements.
Not late enough to miss anything important.
I purchased my ticket.
Seat F12.
Center section.
Excellent viewing angle.
Strategically selected.
I also purchased a large popcorn.
A large soda.
And a box of candy that cost approximately the same as a small appliance.
Total concession expenses: $24.87.
I didn’t complain.
Out loud.
I entered the auditorium.
Found Row F.
Located Seat 12.
And sat down.
Beautiful.
Comfortable.
Reclining seat.
Cupholder.
Two armrests.
Everything a civilized person could want.
Then someone sat beside me.
Seat F13.
A man carrying nachos.
Large nachos.
The kind that require architectural planning.
He settled into his seat.
Placed his drink in the cupholder.
Adjusted his jacket.
And immediately claimed the armrest between us.
The entire armrest.
Elbow.
Forearm.
Hand.
Full occupation.
I looked at it.
Then at him.
Then back at the armrest.
Interesting.
Apparently we were beginning with territorial expansion.
I waited.
Perhaps he would notice.
Perhaps he’d adjust.
Perhaps common courtesy would prevail.
Thirty seconds passed.
Nothing.
I cleared my throat.
He looked at me.
“Everything okay?”
“Just evaluating the seating arrangement.”
He nodded.
“Cool.”
Then turned back toward the screen.
Cool?
No.
This was not cool.
This was a property dispute.
I examined the situation.
I had an armrest on my left.
He had an armrest on his right.
Between us sat one shared armrest.
Three armrests.
Two people.
A mathematical problem.
I leaned slightly toward him.
“Excuse me.”
He turned.
“Yeah?”
“How do you feel about shared infrastructure?”
He blinked.
“What?”
“Shared infrastructure.”
“Like roads?”
“Exactly.”
He looked confused.
I pointed toward the armrest.
“This.”
He stared at it.
Then at me.
“What about it?”
“I believe we need an agreement.”
He laughed.
“An agreement?”
“Yes.”
“For the armrest?”
“Correct.”
He looked around as if searching for hidden cameras.
There were none.
This was a serious negotiation.
“I was thinking we could divide it.”
He examined the armrest.
“How?”
“Front and back.”
He looked at me.
I continued.
“You take the front half. I’ll take the back.”
He considered this.
Then shook his head.
“That’s weird.”
Interesting.
Apparently fairness was weird.
“Would you prefer alternating intervals?”
“What?”
“Fifteen minutes each.”
He laughed.
“Dude, it’s an armrest.”
“Exactly. Which is why this should be easy.”
He moved his arm.
“Fine. Take it.”
Victory.
Immediate.
Decisive.
Almost suspiciously easy.
I placed my elbow on the armrest.
Comfortable.
Perfect.
Justice restored.
Then the previews began.
Loud.
Very loud.
Explosions.
Car chases.
People screaming.
A helicopter appeared to crash through approximately seventeen buildings.
All during an advertisement for an upcoming movie.
I leaned back.
Relaxed.
Enjoyed my popcorn.
Then I noticed something.
My neighbor was struggling with his nachos.
He had the tray balanced awkwardly on his lap.
His drink occupied one cupholder.
His other hand held a cheese-covered chip.
He needed somewhere to rest his elbow.
The armrest.
My armrest.
The one I’d just negotiated.
I looked at him.
He looked at me.
Our eyes met.
He didn’t ask.
He simply continued balancing his nachos.
I considered offering him half.
Then remembered our earlier negotiations.
He had voluntarily surrendered the territory.
Legally, emotionally, and spiritually, it was mine.
But then something unexpected happened.
He offered me a nacho.
“Want one?”
I stared.
A nacho.
A peace offering.
A diplomatic breakthrough.
I accepted.
“Thank you.”
He nodded.
“No problem.”
I moved my elbow.
“Here. You can use the armrest.”
He smiled.
“Thanks.”
And just like that, international relations improved.
The movie started.
For the next forty minutes, everything was peaceful.
Then the man in front of me reclined his seat.
All the way.
Now wait a minute.
I looked at the back of his head.
Then at my knees.
Then at the reclining mechanism.
Apparently this theater had an entirely separate territorial dispute developing.
I leaned forward.
“Excuse me.”
He turned.
“Yeah?”
“How far back does that seat go?”
He looked confused.
“All the way.”
“I noticed.”
He stared.
I continued.
“Are you planning to occupy all available airspace behind your seat?”
He laughed.
“What?”
“Just trying to understand the boundaries.”
He turned back around.
And remained fully reclined.
I sat there.
Processing.
Then I looked at the button on my own armrest.
Recline.
Interesting.
I pressed it.
My seat moved backward.
Slowly.
Smoothly.
Beautifully.
I reclined all the way.
Suddenly, I had plenty of room.
The man in front of me hadn’t invaded my space.
He had simply understood the equipment better than I did.
An inconvenient revelation.
I settled in.
Enjoyed the movie.
Shared a few more nachos.
And forgot about the armrest entirely.
Until the credits rolled.
The lights came on.
My neighbor stood.
“Good movie.”
“Excellent movie.”
He gathered his belongings.
Then looked at me.
“By the way, you were right.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“About?”
“The armrest.”
I smiled.
Finally.
Recognition.
He continued.
“I always thought the middle armrest should belong to whoever gets there first.”
I nodded.
“Understandable.”
“But splitting it makes sense.”
I stood.
“Exactly.”
He laughed.
“Maybe theaters should put a line down the middle.”
I stopped.
A line.
Down the middle.
Brilliant.
A clearly marked boundary.
No confusion.
No arguments.
No unnecessary negotiations.
I looked at him.
“You may have just solved a national crisis.”
He laughed.
We walked out together.
At the exit, I noticed a customer feedback kiosk.
HOW WAS YOUR EXPERIENCE?
Five stars.
I selected four.
Not because the movie was bad.
Not because the seats were uncomfortable.
Not because the staff had done anything wrong.
But because there was no clearly established armrest policy.
Standards matter.
I entered my comment.
Please consider clearly defining shared armrest usage between adjacent seats. This would prevent unnecessary disputes and improve the overall guest experience.
Then I added:
Also, $24.87 for snacks is a little aggressive.
I submitted the feedback.
Walked outside.
And felt accomplished.
The lesson?
Hot Josh believes buying a movie ticket should include reasonable access to the armrest beside his seat.
But sometimes the best way to resolve a dispute isn’t through negotiation.
Responses are generated with the assistance of AI and are not guaranteed to be 100% accurate. If you are unsure, please drop us a line at [email protected].
