It was the worst flight ever. Not because of turbulence, nor screaming children, nor bitchy stewardesses. No, it was something much worse: flatulence.
It seemed like a good idea at the time. Yesterday morning in Torreon, the nice ticket lady said she could move me out of cramped, no legroom 8A over to wide open, exit row 12B. She even smiled as she told me there would be nobody sitting next to me. Hell yes, I said. You know how much stuff I have, so this was great news. I could spread out – laptop, iPad, iPod, headphones, two books; my pen, notebook and digital camera ready just in case I saw something blogworthy.
But horrors, she made a terrible mistake. Greeting me when I walked on the plane was a sweaty four-hundred pound would-be Sumo wrestler. And since he obviously had to buy two tickets to board the plane, he was bound and determined to use them both. I frantically looked about for a vacant seat but the plane was sold out. I was screwed.
Luckily the stewardess had some emergency Vaseline on hand and she quickly lubed up the seat and armrests so I could shoehorn in next to my rotund seat mate. Waiting for it to be over, I tried to nap, but it’s tough to close your eyes when there’s a large fat man covering most of your body and giving off enough heat to power a small city. And the worst part was that the fat bastard had some really strange fruity-smelling gas which he was either unable to control or wanted to share with the entire plane.
I prayed for a crash landing, but apparently God was not with me that day.
Guess it just wasn’t your day or week for that matter.