On the contrary, you are stupid enough. Look what you did to get an injunction slapped on you. That work action had to be the worst run and most uncoordinated effort of any pilot group. You guys were sending text messages to west pilots and calling them as well. All those text messages, btw, were turned over to the company for use against USAPA.
And you're right, if you ever get released (won't happen) we would walk right over you guys and cover that flying in a heartbeat.
This all turns back to the western- never, ever, to be trusted. They crossed in Australia, they cross in their own country. It is their heritage. They cross, period. Never, ever, combine in a contract with them. The scab Move2Clt says it right in your face. "ALL THOSE TEXT MESSAGES, BTW, WERE TURNED OVER TO THE COMPANY......" Read the Nic4Us rant, he too, is a scab. You will NEVER EVER be able to work with these Orenstein trained thieves. What is mine, is theirs, what is yours, is theirs. Remember this.
The following poem by Jack London was written in 1915.
Ode To A Scab
After God had finished the rattlesnake, the toad, and the vampire, He had some awful substance left with which He made a scab. A scab is a two-legged animal with a corkscrew soul, a waterlogged brain, and a combination backbone made of jelly and glue. Where others have hearts, he carries a tumor of rotten principles.
When a scab comes down the street, men turn their backs and angels weep in heaven, and the devil shuts the gates of hell to keep him out. No man has a right to scab as long as there is a pool of water deep enough to drown his body in, or a rope long enough to hang his carcass with. Judas Iscariot was a gentleman compared with a scab. For betraying his Master, he had character enough to hang himself. A scab hasn't.
Esau sold his birthright for a mess of pottage. Judas Iscariot sold his savior for thirty pieces of silver. Benedict Arnold sold his country for a promise of a commission in the British Army.
The modern strikebreaker sells his birthright, his country, his wife, his children, and his fellow men for an unfulfilled promise from his employer, trust, or corporation.
"Ah ha! You’re with America West," he cackled gleefully.
Fire bells should have gone off already, but Max and I looked at each other and shrugged our shoulders saying, "Yes. How did you know?"
"It was your accent," he said with the look of a hawk eyeing a road kill.
It was too late. There was no going back now.
"And you’re with the Federation," I winced.
Well, to make a long story shorter, he was and so were all fifty of the rest of them, who filed in behind us in the space of a couple of minutes.
Max, realizing the danger, edged over towards me and lifted his case of beer from my shoulder.
Triage.
The Federale smiled.
Your problem is that no one believes your fairytales. I couldn't care less either way. But hey, if that makes you sleep better at night then you can live whatever fantasy turns you on. That's what's so funny! You spend sooooo much time getting torqued up about me, trying sooooooo hard to figure me out, it only motivates me to stick around and watch you come apart at the seams. 
