The Great American Pressure Wave
(or, How a Sneeze Grounded Civilization)
By Jaron Summers (c) 2025
It began, as all great national collapses do, with a sneeze.
At 8:02 a.m. Eastern, in a windowless control tower outside Toledo, an overworked air traffic controller named Bob let out a mighty “ACHOO.” Normally, such things go unnoticed. But Bob hadn’t been paid in three weeks due to a government “funding discussion,” and the sneeze startled him into pressing Ctrl–Alt–Everything.
Within seconds, flight paths across the continent resembled spaghetti in a blender.
Phase 1: The Butterfly Effect (FAA Edition)
Bob’s sneeze triggered what scientists now call The Great Pressure Wave of 2025—a chain reaction so powerful it made Newton’s laws weep.
It started with a canceled flight from Cleveland to Pittsburgh. Within minutes, jets were circling Detroit like confused geese. Someone landed a 747 in a Costco parking lot and asked for a receipt.
Toronto accidentally gained three new international terminals. Boise briefly became a global hub. Meanwhile, the FAA’s central servers emitted smoke, which officials at first mistook for “patriotic mist.”
Phase 2: The Domino of Doom
To restore order, Washington convened an emergency task force made up of economists, poets, and one retired magician. They recommended closing all airports for 72 hours to “let the system reset.”
Unfortunately, nobody knew how to turn the system back on. The manual was last seen on microfilm in a drawer labeled Do Not Touch Until Nixon Returns.
Seventy-two hours turned into six months.
Americans rediscovered the ancient art of staying put. People began writing letters again—until pigeons unionized.
Phase 3: The Cultural Meltdown
With the skies empty, civilization began to improvise.
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Frequent Flyers Anonymous meetings popped up in hotel lobbies, where people took turns pretending to deplane.
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Influencers filmed “Airport Nostalgia” videos, sitting on luggage carousels while softly crying to Celine Dion.
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Elon Musk offered to ferry passengers across the country by catapult. The FAA declined, citing “lack of seatbelts.”
The President assured Americans that “everything is under control,” as a lone seagull circled meaningfully overhead.
Phase 4: The Great Repurposing
By month three, airports found new purposes.
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LAX became the world’s largest yoga studio.
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O’Hare was reclassified as an inland sea.
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Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson evolved into a self-governing city-state with its own anthem—mostly gate announcements sung in E-flat.
Economists declared it the most efficient transportation system ever devised, since no one was moving.
Phase 5: The Moral of the Meltdown
Eventually, the skies reopened after Bob found the “Undo” button, hidden under a coffee mug labeled World’s Least Appreciated Hero.
When asked what caused the catastrophe, he replied, “I just sneezed, man.”
The FAA issued a 900-page report concluding that the true cause was a lack of Kleenex, which has since been designated critical infrastructure.
Epilogue
Today, every controller receives three things before each shift:
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A box of tissues,
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A therapy dog, and
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A written reminder that sneezing is now a felony in 23 states.
Because in America, we take our disasters seriously—right up until they become hilarious.
Alternate Titles
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“How a Sneeze Brought Down Civilization (and the Wi-Fi)”
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“The Six-Month Layover Nobody Booked”
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“Pressure Waves and Other National Pastimes”
About the Author:
Jaron Summers writes humor, essays, and occasional truth from Los Angeles and Edmonton. His work has appeared in publications around the world and at jaronsummers.com. He has sneezed responsibly since 1954.
