Oh, how I wish I were on a JetBlue flight right about now. At least I could count on a bag of those wonderful blue potato chips.

But no, we ‘re on our way to The O.C. (a county so rich that, like The Donald, it has a superfluous article) and JetBlue doesn’t fly to John Wayne Airport. So we’re stuck on Continental.

The stingy seats and meager legroom on this 737 were evidently designed for some sort of Lilliputian sub-species, or maybe Peter Dinklage. All the obligatory annoyances of air travel are here, from the movie you don’t want to watch (“Madagascar,”) to the crying kid kicking the back of my seat and the snoring geezer two rows ahead.

But the food really takes the cake. One expects airline food to be lousy, but this Continental breakfast was abysmal. The fruit cup was weird and stringy, as if the orange, grapefruit and pineapple had been frozen and then defrosted once or twice. There was a “cherry flavored” yogurt which contained no fruit but actually did taste like cherry—cherry cough syrup.

The piece de resistance was the egg’n’cheese croissant. “I’d rather eat an MRE,” was Matt’s assessment, after sampling it. We declared defeat and dug out the goat cheese and salami sandwiches we’d brought from home. Oh, and flight attendant? We’ll pass on the packets of partially hydrogenated pretzels you’re handing out. Buh-bye.