You think turbulence is a normal part of flying, but try negotiating your way through a small storm of drunk pilots. Free from their seatbelts and rolling on their barstools with drunk flaps open, it was left to me to make the announcement to the alcoholic fuselage: "Good evening pilots. You're now flying at 50,000 feet. The weather up ahead in a little rocky, we're expecting to encounter verbal abuse and lechery." I notified my inner Bartender Traffic Control to be on the lookout for the plane coming in to land, with a nasty bump. Sure enough, women were spotted, the pilots flew to them, dropping hints, pocketing their wedding bands, the antenna off. No need to worry about wife alarm whistles and fiance danger lights going off. They were on the other side of the country. Spurning advances from the flying corps, the women asked for my intervention. "Return to the hangar now." I yelled. They obeyed. Bartender Control worked.
Wasted, demented, and ready to fly with the trace elements of a hangover forty eight hours later, they staggered to the exit but not before I asked them which airline they flew with but I am unable to share that information, a violation of the privacy ethics that exist between bartender and patron, like doctor and patient.