I would like to make this perfectly clear to the flying public... the aisle is mine. I have 17 inches in which to sashay, shimmy, skip, stomp or moonwalk. It doesn't matter if the seat belt sign is on, if we're in some sort of climbing/descending attitude or if the plane is bucking like a bronco because of turbulence. The galleys and the aisle are my oyster, I can do what I want! You, on the other hand, have rented your 18 inches of fire retardant real estate for the next hour or so and you need to stay within those confines. You did not pay for MY aisle. So get your feet, purse, elbows, linebacker-esque shoulders and fanned out newspaper out of it! You do not get to play scrabble across it, hold a business meeting or let your sugared up offspring run up and down it! Am-SCRAY! I'm trying to work here. Do you see me coming into your cubicle and taking up space or impeding your progress in any way? That would be no. So here is the deal.... I will say to you, with a smile on my face, to excuse me. What I'm really saying is excuse YOU. I will do this about 6 or 7 times (this varies for each flight attendant) after that, IT IS ON. Underneath my perfectly coiffed hair, plastic smile and polished exterior rages a roller derby queen mentality and I fight dirty. You have now unleashed the Aisle Avenger and this has become your Flight of Fury! Next time you go to take a drink of that scalding hot cup o' joe, prepare to be hip-checked. OOPS, I'm sorry. Did I do that? I will sidestep you no more, I am now your Kneecap Nemesis! We are no longer at cruising altitude... we are at bruising altitude. Go ahead, drop those magazine subscription postcards into the aisle and you will feel the Inflight Inflictor's wrath of PAAAAIIIINNNN!