Airship Captains Get to See the Most Gobsmacking Scuttlebutt!

Mere moments ago, as I peered through my monocle over my niece Eugenie's shoulder at her portable folding Babbage-engine device so as to assure her Ladylike electrovirtual comportment, I espied the following clarion call issued to this very community:

Two people are angry at each other over politics. I don't understand why this is a big deal or why Feminist Flag Ship One is mobilizing against him.

Feminist Flag Ship One!? My whiskers—usually smoothed to a fair sleek brilliance with neatsfoot oil—are suddenly a-bristle! Bruce, faithful yeoman that he remains, has been taking the waters at Banff with some young friends in his physical-fitness club, so my own airship has of late been docked.

How could I have known of this latest Scourge upon the fair skies of freedom?

Is it true? Has the weaker sex taken to the skies in dirigibles, even as they foolishly chain themselves to lamp-posts in protest of some imagined slight, like that dreadful harridan Dorothy Parker? What could be more irresponsible than to attempt to man an airship whilst chained to a lamp-post? Yet more evidence, surely, that the Fair Sex is most prudently kept at home, darning hosiery?

This poor Gentleman Mr. West surely stands no chance, now that Feminist Flagship One is mobilized against him!

The Skies Are not Safe, Gentlemen!