I’m in seat 32D – galley just ahead, bathrooms just behind, engines on either side.

The seat is on Alaska Airlines’ Flight 421. I like Alaska because they are polite and friendly but not too friendly – they have a nice "don’t bother us and we won’t bother you" thing going on, which I appreciate because that’s pretty much my attitude from the moment I walk into one airport and out another (okay, fine, that’s pretty much my attitude at all times, but I feel the need to actively project it when traveling - I am also one of those people who read all through the flight).

The flight attendant, an older gentleman probably on his second or third career, is in the galley, on the intercom, mixing jokes into the end-of-flight speech, Southwest style. The jokes aren’t very original, but his delivery is pretty good, and he’s getting a lot of laughs from the passengers. It’s all reasonably painless and easy to ignore.

The speech is over, and he sits down in the jump seat next to the galley. And that’s when he takes the intercom, and begins a near-perfect imitation of Andy Rooney going on and on about the idiosyncrasies of air travel.

So here’s the thing: I hate Andy Rooney. I hate his whiny, nasal voice, and I hate the way he puts sentences together. Really. If I had a free pass to punch any celebrity in the head, it would probably be Andy Rooney. I don’t think about this very often, because I’m usually able to limit my exposure to Andy Rooney. I can avoid his books, and if I really need to see what Ed Bradley and Morley Safer and Lesley Stahl are up to (and I don't), I can watch 57 Minutes. But understand that I’m being completely serious when I say that the sound of Andy Rooney – even the sound of a convincing imitation of Andy Rooney - is like torture. It makes me gnash my teeth and clench my fists. It evokes a fight or flight response. It is very bad news.

I sit through the flight attendant’s first bit, thinking he’ll stop soon, but he doesn’t, and I start to get desperate. I actually consider calling out and begging for mercy, since he’s only two rows up, but I can’t quite bring myself to do it, because he seemed like a nice enough guy before he started with the evil Andy Rooney voice. It occurs to me to hammer at the flight attendant call button, hoping that will get his attention and keep him from launching into yet another, "Did you ever notice how…". And I’m reaching up, I really am, when I overhear something from across the aisle:

"Why is he talking like that?"
"He’s doing an imitation of Andy Warhol."

This sends me into a fit of barking, hysterical laughter, which I do my best to hide behind a fake coughing fit. By the time I recover, waving off the concerned attention of the woman in the seat next to me, the flight attendant has hung up the intercom.

Thank you, mysterious stranger who can't keep your Andies straight.