On the flight back to San Diego this week, I got stuck in the middle seat. Again. On my left was a cowboy, about six-foot four and all elbows. He even came equipped with a Stetson hat and cowboy boots. Shitkickers.
He’d brought food on board. A Dickey’s BBQ sandwich in one of those little Styrofoam containers. I hate it when people bring food on the plane.
To my right was this executive type. He was a mismatched bookend – he went maybe five-four, and had asked the stewardess for a seat belt extender after struggling for five minutes with the regular belt. He’d even worked up a sweat with all that effort. He looked like Danny DeVito in a suit.
So there I was, bony elbows jabbing me on the left, a warm sweaty cushion of flesh pushing at me from the right. As the plane taxied for takeoff, I decided to take a little nap. With any luck, I’d sleep until the San Diego County line and avoid the next two hours of hell.
I was in the middle of a Ménage à trois with a Karen Carpenter and a Klingon midget princess when I was awakened by the sound of crinkling Styrofoam, followed by the unmistakable odor of Texas BBQ. After the unsettling dream I’d just had, the smell was fairly pleasant. It reminded me of a summer picnic.
But here’s where the overcrowding problem became intolerable: the Danny DeVito executive had decided to take a nap as well, and he was a mouth-breather. From the smell of him, he’d eaten his last breath mint sometime around 2007. This guy was rank.
Suddenly the cabin was filled with the smell of rotting BBQ beef. My senses were confused. I couldn’t tell whether the cowboy was eating a sandwich filled with spoiled meat, or the mouth-breathing bad breath executive had eaten a BBQ beef sandwich before getting on the plane.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I said excuse me, climbed over the cowboy’s legs, and ran for the back of the plane. I hid in the bathroom for the rest of the flight.
I’ll never eat Dickey’s BBQ again.