So what's the deal with airline food?

And did I mention I went to Ireland?

I love air travel. There’s just something about watching a guy polish off a pitcher of Guinness and a stack of pancakes at seven in the morning while a family of five is racing to make their connecting flight to Dallas.

Airports just do something to people. I’m not sure if people know this, but you’re not required to cough on an airplane.

We’ve eradicated polio. We’ve gone to the moon. We invented Blu-ray. We’ll eat nothing but refrigerated Cheetos during a six hour layover at LAX. Our species has had some very high highs and some very low lows.

“How much should we charge for these expired Cheetos? 38 dollars?” —every airport convenience store

We don’t know how to deal with the day-to-day monotony of our lives, so we convince ourselves that we need to see the world. But a lot of seeing the world is sitting on planes, drinking ginger ale, and taking time-lapses during takeoff for our husband’s cousin to glance at while poop-scrolling on Instagram.

“Sure, these pretzel twists are ice-cold and my ears are popping, but at least I finally get to watch season 3 of The Mentalist.” —every person on an airplane

My dad is actually the kind of guy who will get on an airplane and just sit. Doesn’t talk. Doesn’t do anything. He’s the kind of guy who’ll just look at the trip-tracker screen during a 12-hour flight to Ireland¹.

So a few months ago, I went to Ireland.

I know I’ve mentioned this before, but I’m Irish. Well—partially Irish. Like 37.5% Irish. I’m also 50% Greek, 12.5% German, and a 100% absolute beefcake.

And a few months ago I went to Ireland with my family. I love my family, I really do. But I’ve always found traveling with family to be a strange experience.

I tend to equate traveling to eating cake. A slice of cake every once in a while? Go for it. You deserve it. Personally, I really like cake. I eat a lot of cake. I’ve eaten cake all over the world. I’m losing the metaphor a bit here, but basically—you can’t entirely live on cake.

I think that traveling with family is like getting stabbed—repeatedly—while eating cake. The cake still tastes good, sure, but now you’re losing a lot of blood. And at some point, you have a decision to make: do you keep eating the cake, or do you remove the blade from your ribcage?

I’ve heard that you can lose about a half-gallon of blood before you die. I tell myself that every time I embark on a family trip.

In a few weeks, I’m heading to England with my wife’s family for a wedding. I love my wife’s family, I really do, but it’s comforting to know that I can lose about a half-gallon of blood before I die.

I don’t know about you, but a half-gallon seems like a lot to me. That’s like… four pounds. Or five dollars, depending on the exchange rate.

A special thanks to Noah Smith’s rabbits,² Giggles and Cinnamon, for providing the economic analysis at the (cotton)tail end of this piece. Noah Smith is a former Bloomberg Opinion columnist and former assistant professor of finance at Stony Brook University. He now writes the annoyingly popular economics blog, Noahpinion³.

Boris Johnson, Brexit, money money money, international markets, interest rates, inflation, Leontief input/output something or other. You think you’re the only one who can write about monetary policy, Noah? I bet you don’t even know how many U.S. dollars a half-gallon of blood weighs.

Missed my last This is bullshit and so can you post? Read it here.

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1. Yeah, yeah, I’m sure all these jokes have been said before—so don’t @ me. You try being funny on the internet.

2. Noah Smith’s rabbits

3. I should probably clarify that Noah Smith’s rabbits did not, in fact, provide the economic analysis for my lackadaisical joke about how many U.S. dollars are in a half-gallon of blood. Also I really like Noah Smith’s newsletter and I have the utmost respect for his rabbits.