The flight to the UK went somewhat smoothly. Instead of boring every one with how terrible the food was and how little sleep I had seated next to two snorelaxs, I thought I’d share with you another encounter. Some of you have already heard this story, but for those that haven’t, I apologise in advance. This one is not for the weak of stomach. If you have recently eaten I suggest you stop here.
I was traveling to Peru from LA on what was to be the longest flight of my life.
An elderly lady (let’s call her Grams) tottered her way down the isle, floral carry-on in tow, and gently eased her way into the seat next to me. A small Peruvian girl no older than 25 seated in the row in front chatting with her brother. Over the gentle murmur of the engines warming up I could hear they were traveling home for a family wedding. It had obviously been a while since they last caught up as they chatted through take off and well into the flight. Clouds whipped by in waves of scarlet hue as night was quickly setting in.
— ~ —
As the cabin lights dimmed, the now royal blue sky gave a wicked twinkle. The row infront had been unusually quiet for the past few minutes. I peeked through the gap in the seats and noticed the girl seemed uneasy, nervous even. Balls of sweat accumulating on her brow, teeth clenched. I wondered, was she a nervous flyer, a drug mule even? No, surely even a wonder of stupidity would not be bringing drugs back into Peru. The harsh reality of the situation soon hit me like a sack of potatoes. The gurgles and groans were clearly audible from the row behind. I could hear it manifesting like a suppressed memory. She stammered over words as she concentrated every ounce of energy into holding her bowels. An angry bellowing and hurried steps straight to the restroom confirmed my deepest fears.
I can only assume this poor girl (hereforth named “GaGa, Destroyer of Worlds”) made the unfortunate decision last night of eating several burritos for dinner and washed it down with a litre of prune juice. “I have a bad feeling about this” Grams whispered. “No shit” I replied, without thinking. She shot me a glance and let out a sheepish chuckle.
I thought we might have hit a pocket of turbulence, but it was only the feeling of my stomach sinking into my shoes as the travesty ahead began. A raging torrent of liquid panty stainer echoed through the untimely silence of the cabin. With the force of a thousand suns, this grave injustice was enough to test the structural integrity of the aircraft. Like a one man jazz band had been trapped in the cubicle with the perpetrator, desperate to escape, every toot and squeak was agonisingly clear. The extended roar of a trombone, the dry haw-hee of an air horn, and finally a dramatic crash of cymbals.
After the brass symphony had concluded and a moment to freshen up, GaGa emerged looking victorious. Had the beast had been slain? Level ups received, loot gathered? No, unfortunately the experience didn’t end there. She opened door, took a step, pausing for a few seconds before immediately swinging around, slamming the door behind her. Round two. In a desperate effort to distract myself from the atrocities of nature occurring mere meters from my seat, I fumbled my headphones in and turned my iPod up to eleven. But, as the door swung shut I caught a gust of “tail wind”, rousing an irrepressible gag. The smell, oh god, the smell. It was nauseating. So pungent it cauterised my nostrils. It boggled my mind how someone of such small stature could produce a work of such unspeakable evils. I was trapped. Death was imminent – I could feel it in my bones as the personified evil began fumigating my very soul. Grams’s hair blew in the wind (so to speak) as she wretched her neck back violently. She jumped to her feet with the agility of a caffeinated squirrel. Not so willing to surrender to the jaws of death, she legged it down the aisle with reckless abandon. I sat there like a stunned mullet, in complete disbelief. It was one of the strangest sights I’ve ever paid witness to. The next days headlines flashed before my eyes “Boffins Prove Farts Cure Arthritis”.
A nefarious cloud rolled down the aisle after Grams, preying on the naivety and innocence of its victims. Passengers desperately burying themselves into whatever they could find – blankets, used socks, another man’s armpit. In this most dire of situations, no judgments were made. Prayers, however, were made to every deity imaginable “When will this suffering end?”.
The door creeped open and once again GaGa emerged, this time looking somewhat flush. Her face – red, glowing brighter than the victims of Chernobyl. She knew all too well what she had done. Reeking of guilt, she seamlessly retreated back to her seat as though nothing had happened at all.
From here it gets a little hazy. I vaguely remember someone crying. I can’t be certain, but it is quite possible it was baby Jesus.
The Glorious Adventures of Stev and Co 