Air Travel Is For Assholes

Air Travel Is For Assholes And we’re back.

That, by the way, should be read in the cheesiest, radio-most voice you can manage:

And we’re baaaaack!

Then, someone pushes buttons and makes fart noises, monkey hoots, and plates breaking.

Yes, that’s right. We here at terribleminds (and by “we” I mean me, myself, and my tapeworm) have returned. No thanks to the joyful rigors of air travel, mind. Sure, you’ll see a more cogent “trip report” from me in the coming days, but for now — whilst I’m properly addled on cold medication and jet lag! — it seemed a most excellent time to unzip my fly and deposit a golden stream of wisdom on the heads of airline travelers the world-around. Pssshhhhh. Feel that? Tastes like wisdom. Smells like Sugar Smacks. Mmmm.

Now, you might think this post will be about the airline industry itself. After all, traveling is usually an event that contains as much pleasure and efficiency as a prostate exam performed with a rusty egg-beater. Sure, you get shoved in a metal can and sling-shotted through the air. Yes, you must endure the bitter sting of disgruntled airline employees. And of course, there’s that whole thing where you get wadded up into a very small space like a pair of used panties stuffed in a half-crumpled Pringles can (“Here is your pre-defined square foot of wiggle room with proscribed borders clearly defined by your inability to move at all, ever. Please do not struggle, or you will be anesthetized and flushed out of the plane via the aircraft’s vacushittatorium. Enjoy your flight, Mister Wingding”).

Thing is, though, traveling was fine enough, at least from the industry perspective. It was blunt. It was not exactly friendly. But it was functional. Planes left on time, always got there early (and in the last two weeks I’ve been on six different planes of various sizes). I got my free drinks. Life goes on.

No, what amazes me are the absolute douche-donkeys that travel the airstream these days.

See, anybody can buy a ticket. Which means that flying no longer possesses any of that Mad Men magic where you see dudes in suits sipping Manhattans next to pretty ladies clutching big purses. Now, it’s right on par with bus travel. You know how hobos can wander onto buses? They can wander onto planes, too. So that’s what this is. This is an ode to all those shitheads, to all those fuck-for-brains, to all those asstacular wankernecks who somehow ended up on a plane seated somewhere in my general vicinity.

Creepy Perm Guy With Dubious Credentials

We’re sitting at O’Hare, waiting for the last leg of our journey home to board, and we’re sitting across from a trio of… well, unemployed faux-pagan Ren Fair types in their late 40s (I’m not stereotyping, this is all information I learned while sitting there), and who should wander up but some too-tan, bug-eyed white dude with a greasy Jheri curl slash mullet combo-pack going on upstairs. His jeans, like his posture and overall demeanor, are simply too tight. The guy is stock straight. And he just wanders up into the middle of us and stands there. Then kind of totters this way and that, always looking at the world with his eyes bulging, his head cocked, like he’s an alien who hasn’t yet parsed the vagaries of Earth living.

Later, when the flight has boarded and we’re mostly full, he wanders onto the plane. Again with the sense of, “What is this strange Earth conveyance? It is nothing like our Martian spice-gliders!” feel. He wanders around trying to find a seat when finally the itchily-nervous flight attendant accosts him and asks him to sit, and the guy shoves a piece of paper in the attendant’s hand — the flight attendant says, “This is just a piece of paper, you need to go get an actual boarding pass.”

And greasy perm guy wanders away.

I’m like, “How the fuck does he get onto a plane without a boarding pass? How does he even get to the gate without one?” Is he some kind of air travel ninja? Puff of smoke, the whiff of hair gel, and there he is?

Eventually he wanders back on, shows a boarding pass, and sits down. Then he read a magazine. Or, as I like to think of it, “Telepathically communicated with his cosmic masters.”

Old Asian Dude Who Wants To Rest His Head On My Pillowy Thighs

First flight. Old Asian guy in front of me jacks his seat back far enough where he almost crushes the iPad resting delicately upon my seat tray, and then leans back further — so far, in fact, I assume that he wants to give me a goodnight kiss or maybe some oral favors. The top of his half-bald head is, quite literally, five inches from my mouth. Fine. I decided that, for the remainder of the flight, I would cough (with mighty spittle release) upon his scalp endlessly. And I also thought I would massage him gently by constantly punching and kicking the seat.

Dude, that seat isn’t a cot. We’re not sleeping in bunk beds. Get off my crotch.

Goulash Guy and the Kimchee Twins

Explain this to me. If I bring in a bottle of water — sealed! — from outside the airport, I can be detained and my rectal cavity might be searched for bomb-making components.

And yet, if I really want, I can bring my own food — in a dirty-ass Tupperware container, no less — onto a plane and nobody will bat an eye? How is that bloody reasonable?

On the one flight, and I think I mentioned this in an earlier post, some grumpy old dude wheels out a massive Tupperware container of goulash, then proceeds to unwrap massive hunks of crusty bread and sop up this heady broth with naught but his hands and the bread. Then, on another flight, caddy-corner to us sat a trendy punk Asian couple, and they were eating — I’m not kidding — a fuckton of kimchee. And these really strong-smelled sesame crackers, too. And these were not the only culprits! People all around us, chowing down on food they could not possibly have procured within an airport terminal.

Listen, I’m sympathetic. I know that inside the airport, you need to tap a line of equity just to buy a bagel. So, seriously? I get it. It’s just — here’s the thing. First, I don’t know why you’re allowed to bring on a bucket of gruel, but I can’t bring on a bottle of factory-sealed water. Second, newsflash: we are all trapped in a very claustrophobic aluminum tube together for four hours. What you’re eating? I’m eating. Were you to, say, bring on some kind of stinky concoction, then we will all smell your nasty corpse-foot soup.

You seriously couldn’t just make a ham-and-cheese sandwich? You absolutely unequivocally had to bring onboard pickled herring stuffed with gorgonzola cheese?

The Russian Kickdancer Kids

First flight, who should sit directly behind us? Two adorable little twins. So ginger! So cute! You know what else is cute? The way their parents pay zero attention to what their children — currently sitting in their goddamn laps – are doing. What they’re doing, by the way, is kicking the shit out of our seats. Now, listen. I won’t hit a child. But I will hose him down with Bear Mace. I think chemical sprays are the best ways to teach a child anything. Flash cards with math problems? Spelling bees? Life lessons? Confirm with pepper spray or bear mace. Teaches ‘em every time.

Actually, I was amazed at the number of children traveling. Hey, that’s your bag, but I can’t imagine wanting to take my one-year-old child on a 6-to-12-hour journey to Hawaii. You think that kid cares he’s in Hawaii? He doesn’t. To him, swimming with a tire in a murky sinkhole is just as much fun (or of equal horror) as frolicking with dolphins somewhere. You’re the ones who want to go to Hawaii. The kid sure doesn’t — after all, listen to him scream! For six hours! Bear mace! BEAR MACE.

The “Hey, Thanks For Making Me A Racist” Terrorist Cabal

I’m generally pretty good in that I don’t usually play the “OMG TERRORIST” card. I see a Sikh, an Indian, someone speaking Arabic, I don’t freak out. Air travel is a cultural soup — people of different colors and creeds are on every plane, and that’s a good thing.

And then you have yesterday.

I walk into the gate and see what you’d describe as “shifty dudes.” They’d be shifty regardless of race — dark clothing, leather jackets, huddled together, looking nervous, whispering, always staying away from people. You get too close, they totter away. Coming, going. Rarely blinking. Then, add onto the situation a generous dollop of, “Hey, they’re also whispering in Arabic, and they look like every photo you’ve ever seen of the 9/11 hijackers,” and next thing I know, I’m suffering a full-bore racist meltdown.

My brain, ping-ponging: holy crap, terrorists! Right here! I could foil their plot. I could go tell somebody. Except, that’s wrong. Right? Wrong. Assumptive. Racists. I’m an asshole. A total asshole. I hate myself for thinking this. But then, but then — where’s the line? If I say something and it turns out these guys are actually terrorists, I’m a hero. If I say something and they’re, I dunno, vending machine salesmen from Jersey City, then I am a giant honking racist dick-mouth. Such a fine line! Should I damn cultural sensitivity? As they’re blowing up the plane, will I think, “At least I remained politically correct?” Or, as they’re being dragged off the plane, stripped of their vending machine catalogs and freedom as hoods are shoved over their heads, will I think, “Perhaps I made a horrible error?”

Then as we’re getting on board, two more shifty gentleman get on. One of them, a younger guy, maybe 21, is really nervous. He keeps swallowing noticeably. And he’s looking everywhere on board with darting eyes. It’s equal parts of, “I don’t want to be found out” and “Who will resist my martyrdom?” and “Could I stick a bomb here in the toilet? Maybe, maybe.”

Then I see these two shifty dudes sit with the other two shifty dudes.

Then I think, “Wow, if they’re terrorists, they’re awfully ballsy. I mean, they’re all sitting together.”

Then: “And, if they were actually terrorists, wouldn’t they be a little less conspicuous? I mean, sure, that guy who tried to explode his underwear was a bit obvious, but this really takes the cake.”

And finally, “I wonder if the reason that they’re nervous is because everyone thinks they’re terrorists.” That kind of constant scrutiny and racism from shitheads like me would make anybody shifty and anxious.

Half-hour into the flight I get up and wander back to the bathroom and see them all back there sleeping like mouth-breathing babies. Seriously: heads back, mouths open, heavy snoring. If they’re terrorists, I think, they’re awfully lazy. It occurs to me then that, hey, I’m kind of an asshole. I’m not saying they couldn’t have done a little more to appear less terroristic, sure, but who am I to judge? I mean, Jeebus only knows what I look like. People probably think I’m a crazy person half the time.

Sorry, not-actually-a-terrorist cabal. We’re all a little sensitive these days. Just know that we’re trying not to be total racist smackbabies. We white people suck at it, but some of us try nonetheless.

Hobo Joe And His Buttcrack Delight

And finally, the piece de resistance.

Hawaii to San Francisco, a big dude gets on board. Not fat, just lumbering. He’s an older guy: wisps of gray hair, a scraggly beard, spectacles. A little hobo-hippy chic. Some combination of MC Hammer-slash-sweat pants adorn his tree trunk legs, and his bare chest is exposed because he has not bothered to button his shirt. You can, at times, see his nipples ringed in gnarly gray chest hair.

I’m aisle. Wife in the middle. Hobo Joe by the window.

Hobo Joe proceeds to make the six-hour flight completely unpleasant.

First, he’s unaware of his own physical margins. He’s constantly bumping into the wife — *elbows and knees and jostle jostle jostle hip check steal armrest adjust balls jostle jostle shake*

Then he spills coffee on my wife’s hand.

Then he needs to go to the bathroom. Not once, but several times. He doesn’t just walk out of the seats like a normal human, ohhh no — he crawls over them. Seriously. And his nasty lice-caked sweat pants fall down around his butt so I catch a half-moon of his pale assyness.

Then he takes his shoes off. Puts his bare feet up on the armrests.

His pants continue to drift downward. He is not wearing underwear. You can see the mudslide shelf of his gut. You can see the flabby stretch-mark expanse of the skin that surely leads to his balls, balls that are probably home to various rodents and broken Christmas ornaments and old Band-Aids.

Sometimes he tries to talk to us. Mumbling. Then he gets excited about the Dallas Cowboys. The wife and I go back to playing a game on the iPad (Little Things, totally worth it) and he’s still over there yammering away to — who? Us? We’re not listening to you, Hobo Joe. Scratch your testes at somebody else.

Finally, we’re starting our descent and he decides this is high time to get his giant duffel bag (shouldn’t even be allowed on the plane). Why? Because “his keys are in it.” I don’t know what this has to do with anything, because it’s not like gremlins are trying to steal the keys, but whatever. He fetches the bag and — the guy already has a laptop with him — then tries desperately to shove it under the seat in front of him. Meanwhile, I’m standing up because he’s taking up our whole aisle trying to accomplish this epic and impossible task, and since we’re descending, we are experiencing turbulence. Turbulence no longer bothers me except when I’m not buckled in because that’s how people end up with brain contusions and shit — plane drops suddenly, I’m not affixed to any part of the plane, and thus I shatter my tender skull on the plane ceiling.

Finally I just snap at the guy — “That will not fit under your seat, dude. Stop trying.” He asks me, “Are you sure?” The wife and I both confirm: “Not going to fit.” And it’s not. I can barely fit my laptop case under the seat and this guy is trying to shove a dead pony under there. He finally says, “I’ll trust your judgment,” and then hands *me* the bag because now it’s my job to put his stinky hobo accouterments up in the bin.

Fine. I do it. We sit. He tries to babble at us again and we ignore him. We land and get far the fuck away from Hobo Joe. How’d he get onto a plane? I dunno. He’s probably an eccentric billionaire. But even if that’s true: one thing is money has not yet bought him is a pair of goddamn underpants. Dude, if you’re out there? Reading this? Buy underwear. Just one pair. For important occasions like, say, the Prom. Or riding on planes with other human adults.

People on planes are such assholes.

I now demand your worst “Asshole-On-A-Plane” story.

Go.

24 comments

  • Have only ever flown once, as a kid, so it was exciting rather than crap. But i KNOW exactly what you mean about Buses. For a stretch there, i would take the greyhound from cinci to lexington (About 100 miles) in order to get home for the weekend from college. and it never failed that ended up next to either the screaming baby or the waterhead telling his entire life story to his seatmate, or in bad situations, ME.

    On least one memorable occasion, i received the Combo Platter.

  • Despite being sick and everybody in Hawaii telling you that everything but a martini was a martini, I’m glad you had a fun vacation.

    My asshole on a plane stor: one time, I sat next to a guy and we started talking. He asked me what I did for a living. I said, “I write and I work in a group home taking care of mentally retarded adults.” (Best job I ever had.)

    I asked him what he did; he said, “I sell solutions.”

    I asked him what the hell that meant, and he went on about how “I interface with clients in order to determine their needs, and then I sell them solutions.”

    “That really tells me nothing,” I said. “That could be the description of a drug dealer.”

    He went on, again, with another long description that told me nothing. This was almost 20 years ago, and now people like him are everywhere.

  • @Christopher —

    Dang, that is true. Those people are everywhere. Internet marketers and social media gurus — *hisses, makes the sign of the cross*

    And thank you, sir, it’s good to be back.

    — c.

  • I feel horrible as I have no asshole on a plane story. All of my flights have been rather pleasant, full of little bags of peanuts and hours of dozy daydream time. I guess the closest I came was a two year old girl that fell asleep and eventually tipped over to use my arm as her pillow. But that was more adorable than annoying, especially when her father whispered a million apologies (I really wasn’t mad, I was half asleep myself) and pulled her back onto him.

    Maybe I should fly more and get my fair share of assholes. I always seem to get seated alone or next to very well behaved children.

  • I used to fly a lot, up until my early teens.

    When I was little, it was no problem. I’d get on the plane, the stewardesses would fuss over me because I was a fucking adorable kid, and then we’d get where we were going. I might do some madlibs on the way, visit the pilot and get wings and a little plane, or read a book. Nobody messed with me.

    When I got older, the stewardesses became less interested in me as I became more interested in them. Sad. Anyway…

    When I was 14, I was sitting on the plane wearing my pentacle and reading some H.P. Lovecraft, trying very hard to mind my own business, but the guy next to me sees the pentacle, and the Lovecraft… And he starts telling me all about Aleister Crowley and how he “created the Necronomicon” with Lovecraft. Now, I had the Simon Necronomicon in my bag, and I knew better. So, being a stupid kid, I got drawn into the conversation, and I corrected him.

    He recovered by telling me he was just trying to figure out how much I knew, and started telling me about the Order of the Golden Dawn. So I was stuck for three hours listening to a creepy guy tell me about Dion Fortune and Crowley’s occult mysteries. When we got off the plane, he tried to get me to go with him, to “show me his library.”

    “Oh no, not going with you, you creepy pedo” came out “sorry, I have to meet my grandparents. Bye!” *exit stage left*

    Fun, fun.

    • @Chris:

      Ahhh, weirdos on planes. Good times. Odd that he tried to pull the “Come with me” story at a goddamn airport. It’s not like people fly without having plans — “Ehh, just taking a quick flight to Tampa, figured I’d tool around the airport, fly back.”

      — c.

  • Yeah, it was really odd how obvious he was.

    The only other time (he says, as if every kid has to deal with multiple kidnapping attempts) anyone tried to pull anything like that, it was two guys in dirty hawaiian shirts driving in a old, post-auction police cruiser trying to get me to come over to the car when I was playing in my front yard.

    “But it’s ok, we’re cops,” they said.

    I said “I probably can’t help, but I can get my mom!”

    They drove off immediately.

    So maybe Tampa pedos are just idiots?

  • The scariest thing I ever experienced on a plane was coming home from England with my mother.

    I watched Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull.

    Terrifying.

  • There was that whole fiasco with the me-missing-my-flight-and-the-old-guy-and-the-asian-dude that you must venture to blog-land to hear about. It was pretty bad. And about 80% my fault for being late. (Theres yer link, Wendig.)

    I’m actually pretty sure I’ve been guilty of being one of those passengers on multiple occasions – my second trip through security on fiasco day I was toting my camera bag with all my fancy camera supplies and a 500 gb gigantic mybook harddrive that for the life of them security could not figure out what it was so obviously it’s a bomb.

    Though for all the hassle, I thoroughly enjoy air travel.

  • Good to have you back, Chuck.

    I very rarely ride on planes for the reasons in the comments and post above. But, about a year I was riding on a plane from Orlando to Detroit with a massive brace on my knee, I’d torn my ACL at football practice about a month or two earlier. Bending my knee in any way was out of the question, the brace locked it in to a permanent obtuse bend.

    The “child” ( I believe the technical term is insane shitmonkey) sitting in front of me continuously leaned his seat back on my leg. Being a responsible and level-headed person, I tattlled on him and told his Dad. This was a mistake. It didn’t make him lean back any less, just made it so that every time he leaned back I heard his nasally-voiced dad whine, “Isaac! Stopppppppp, ugh!”

    I sat behind him on the ride back, too.

  • My first plane ride: It’s a very small plane. I’m on with about 6 other people, including the pilot.

    Some asshole gets behind me, uncomfortably close, and starts tying us together with straps and buckles. I make it apparent that I’m not gay or partial to being on the receiving end of bondage, but he insists. I’m officially tied up, and bottom.

    We reach about 15,000 feet and he pushes us both out of the plane.

  • Welcome back sir. Hope you enjoyed Hawaii.

    I don’t have any horrific stories. I also can’t imagine how it is hard to keep your kids entertained for a few hours on a plane ride. It really isn’t that hard.

  • Travel makes me sleepy, so I’m usually dozing before we back off from the terminal…which is wonderful because I’m not a talkative person and most people will not bother someone sleeping or trying to sleep. (I always try to get the window seat for this purpose: it’s the only seat I can sleep in, and I don’t feel bad about making people wake me up to go to the bathroom.) I’d rather everyone else on the plane ignore me (except, y’know, when I need a blanket because it’s near absolute zero on there and the guy next to me doesn’t realize he isn’t cooling off because his blower is pointed at me and not him).

    However, the most annoying guy I had to sit next to couldn’t get the hint that I was trying to sleep. We were still on the tarmac, and I was curled up, facing the window, eyes closed. He says something. I pause, realizing he might be talking to me. I ask; he was. He repeats himself. I give him a short and quick answer and then turn back to the window and close my eyes. He asks something else. Again, I give him the shortest possible answer and try to sleep again. He did this several times; I don’t know what kept me from exploding sarcasm on him about how turning away and closing my eyes means, at the very least, I don’t want to talk, and at worst, I’m trying to sleep and answering your incessant “I want to talk” questions is–gasp!–NOT SLEEPING!

  • The last time I had to fly somewhere I was told my rolling backpack was too fat for the overhead, so I pulled my jacked out (and put it on even though it was crazy hot), shoved a book in my waistband, and put my (stupid heavy) laptop power cord in my purse to flatten it. I’m get seated just in time to watch two gigantic women shuffled onto the plane carrying overstuffed black Hefty bags, which they proceeded to whack into the overhead bins (picture that guy from THE BURBS who beats the hell out of his garbage). How can a laptop, three magazines & a novel compete with a dead body and a month’s worth of dirty laundry?

  • Eh, I don’t know. Aside form the occasional thunderstorm stranding me in an airport overnight I’ve always enjoyed flying.

    Also, the drink cart visits are much less painful than having actual Zen masters smack you with bamboo canes at random intervals.

  • I’ve been pretty fortunate so far. The only asshole on a place experience I had was the L.A.-Philly leg of my flight from S. Korea. Two teenage girls sat behind me chewing their gum and kicking the back of my seat. They stopped the kicking when I asked, but would inevitably resume.

  • My asshole-on-a-plane is actually an asshole-on-a-train story. Sorry to hijack, but I must.

    When I decided I was going to Florida to meet Rick for the first time, I bought a train ticket. This was before all the borders got nun’s-cunt tight,and you need special dispensation from the Emperor of These United States and Her Majesty the Queen to cross between the nations. I was selected for a random bag search at Niagara Falls. The customs agents were royal tools; I’d just had my tongue pierced, and I had a huge bottle of Scope in my bag, near to hand in case I got a chance to grab a snack or suck down a cigarette. They questioned me about my intentions with the Scope, and didn’t really seem to buy my “minty fresh breath?” as valid, but let it pass after another inspector wandered by and complimented me on my barbell. (No, really, I wasn’t sticking my tongue out at them. Honestly. I was just showing them my piercing.)

    Trains being what they are, the Niagara Falls train only got me to NYC, and it was a non-smoking train to boot. The layover was hell on wheels, since one of the Amtrak trains derailed in Boston, which gummed up the whole works. Add to that the fact that I have absolutely no American cash, and the fuckheads at the hotel across the street from Grand Central couldn’t even change up a five for me at their foreign currency counter because I wasn’t a “guest’. The five hundred Canadian I had in my wallet did me jack shit.

    Then there’s this guy who’s on his way to Tampa, sitting next to me in the station after my unsuccessful attempt to procure food (which I’ve not had since early in the morning, and it’s about 10pm EST.) I’m fairly certain his name was Anthony. Regardless, after he asked why I looked so pale, he promptly got up and bought me a coffee and a sandwich, then chatted with me about literature and travel until our train finally arrived some 4 hours later.

    That train took me to DC. Now, I have friends in the area, so my six-hour layover involved a hot shower, breakfast at IHOP and some truly kickass company for the duration. My next train was the one from hell.

    It was the longest, and the one filled with the most jackasses. While it (thankfully) had a car on which smoking was legal, half of the people in it were nosy old bats asking all kinds of personal questions about where you’re going, who you’re meeting and why you’re doing it. I had a guy sit next to me briefly who kept looking over my shoulder trying to watch Harry Potter on my laptop with me.

    And then. And then there was him.

    The guy got on somewhere in Pennsylvania and didn’t get off until Jacksonville. And the entire time, he sat by me, giving me that creepy stare that girls travelling alone are always warned about. Never mind the fact that approximately half the seats in the car were empty; he had to sit right by me and try to engage me in conversation. He tried to touch me.

    I packed my shit up and moved to the smoking car for a bit because, while the old bats might be nosy and shit, at least they’re not perving on me like a molester just out of prison. And I had headphones, so I could ignore them in favor of movies. I finally returned to my seat a couple hours later and he was gone. So I curled up in a blanket I stole from the hotel, stretched out my chair, and went to sleep.

    I woke up some indeterminate time later with this incessant poking on my shoulder. I look blearily up to see, to my horror, that Perv Molester has returned and is stretched out beside me. And he has the armrest between the seats up. And there’s still a million unclaimed seats. And. AND! He’s poking me to get me to move over — so his ass can migrate onto my chair, and press uncomfortably against my ass until I get back up for a cigarette, and never come back.

    Moral of the story: Assholes are not just limited to the air, and they’re always worse when you have to spend extended periods of time in contact with them.

  • My Asshole-on-a-Plane story is more just creepy and rapey than anything.

    I was on a short flight (about an hour) to LA and scored a window seat – yes! I figured some couple or something would take the other two but they remained vacant until the last moment, when a thin, 50-something stud in a plaid suit slithered into the seat in the middle. I assumed he had someone with him, and that’s why he didn’t sit a seat away from me, but no one showed up. Immediately, he started flaking skin onto me, the seat, and the pull down tray. It was coming off of his thinning scalp, the backs of his hands, and he was probably digging it out of his crotch because there was a lot of – ahem – activity under his magazine. It was like he’d had a terrible sunburn or eczema or something. So nasty.

    Feeling dirty, I excused myself to the bathroom and washed my hands and arms. When I got back, I asked if he’d like the window seat (I planned to take the aisle seat and leave some space between us). He declined and I said, “wow, there’s only two of us, if you move over, we can set our stuff on this seat. He just laughed like I’d told him a hilarious joke, then settled into the middle seat again, trapping me against window.

    Then (yes, it gets better) he proceeded to lean across me under the pretense of looking out the window and started sniffing me. My face, my hair, he even leaned down and sniffed near my chest. I tilted in my seat and smashed myself so I was basically clinging to the window at this point, facing away from him.

    For the last twenty minutes of the flight, every time I wasn’t looking directly at him, he’d whisper something nasty to me that I almost couldn’t hear, I caught words like, “pussy, mile-high, cock, etc”.

    Finally I’d had enough and no longer cared if I got arrested because they thought I was trying to hijack the plane and I whipped around, looked right at him and said, “leave me alone, you creepy piece of shit, or I will finish you.” I’m not exactly sure how I intended to “finish him”, but it scared him enough that he moved into the aisle seat and pretty much ran from me once we landed.

Speak Your Mind, Word-Nerds