Farts on a Plane
August 21st, 2006This weekend I went to Niki’s parents’ lake house in Indiana for a little R & R. It was just what the doctor ordered. And flying to and fro wasn’t that much of a hassle. That is, until we met a fellow passenger I’ll go ahead and call Gigantica.
He was sitting two rows ahead of us and was taking up both the window and middle seats simultaneously. The poor guy probably has to purchase two tickets every time he travels. And even with this arrangement, he still was crowding into the guy sitting in the aisle seat. So, if Gigantica keeps up this pace, he might have to start buying up three seats at a time.
Besides uncomfortable seating arrangements, Gigantica’s eating habits were probably also disturbed from the new aviation guidelines. I imagine Gigantic digesting as much Mountain Dew and engulfing as many beef burritto supremes as possible right before he boards. So far, Homeland Security has done an okay job combatting terrorists by banning liquids on planes. But they forgot to focus on another possible weapon of choice: gases.
The minute Gigantica sat down, every ounce of his beef burritto supreme exploded out of his ass creating a loud, squishy sound. This caused some snickering between the fellow passengers and flight attendants. But the foul stench that followed turned our smiles into angry grimaces. Gigantica attempted to alleviate our pain by getting up and squeezing himself into the lavatory. But this only made matters worse. Soon enough, Gigantica’s lethal gas had managed to seep under the lavatory cracks and travel back to our seats. Now we were being hit from both sides.
Throughout our gas-induced hostage crisis, all of us passengers bonded and fought off the terrible odor by performing such heroic acts as holding our noses, waving our right hands in front of our faces, and even crouching down in a crash position. When the plane finally landed safely, we breathed a collective sigh of relief, and in my dream world Samuel L Jackson suddenly appeared and yelled out, “I’ve had it with these mother fuckin’ farts on this mother fuckin’ plane!” But he didn’t.
August 30th, 2006 at 3:41 pm
Dear Mr. Latham:
I actually know this man. His name is not Gigantica. It is William. He lives in High Point, has a wife named Gina, and is rumored to be a Domino’s franchisee. Vegetables are his kryptonite.