On a fine winter day I landed at West Palm Beach, Florida, with all this narcissism on flagrant display. I taxied up to the FBO like I was in a Gulfstream, all the while bragging about the pressurization and the radar, which I barely knew how to turn on. As the fancy linemen and their luggage cart trundled out to greet the high rollers I had with me, I sought to open that great big door and broke the handle off in my hand. Seeing the delay, the linemen lost interest and ran to greet a Learjet, where a clearly bigger tip lay in store. Trapped inside, the Florida heat began to make it clear that the hatch was the best way out. After rearranging my passengers in a most inelegant way, I tried to hoist myself out of the hatch, only to find it more difficult than anticipated. Because I intended to maintain some self-respect and because the airplane was not on fire, the disembarkation process took on a certain lengthy Laurel-and-Hardy look. It all came to its denouement when a lineman tapped me on my protruding butt and suggested he open the door from the outside. I yelled between my legs my approval of this brilliant plan, extricated myself and walked sheepishly into the FBO.