Up In The Bad Air…

There is a lot going on in the world right now.  Yeah, I know the government has their hands full.  Flooding in Tennessee.  Volcanic ash, fucking up air travel.  Oil spewing into the Gulf of Mexico faster than Tiger Woods in a Perkins Pancake House.  Shit is going down.  I got to tell you, I feel it.  I’m tense, I’m on edge.   I know that a lot of this is out of my hands.   Mother Nature is just sitting back and giving us the finger.  So are big banks and Wall Street.  They don’t give a shit.  So it’s hard.  It’s hard to think about doing the right thing.  I know in times like these we have to come together and support our fellow-man.  We need to rise above it.  We need to rally around those in need.  We need to think not of self, but of the selfless.  I know this.  I try.  I really do.  I hold doors for people.  I say “God Bless You”.  I pretend not to look at a hot chics rack when I’m in the presence of my girlfriend.  I do my part.  I’m trying.  I’m not perfect, but I’m trying.  But I swear to God, if another Mother Fucker busts ass on a flight that I’m on, I’m gonna go fucking ballistic.  I’m gonna go all Naomi Campbell on someone.  Start beatin’ some bitch with an Iphone.  Look, I know it’s hard.  I know the cabin pressure at thirty-three thousand feet feels like a door getting kicked in on the intestinal walls.  We all feel it.   That’s why I don’t eat at Buffalo Wild Wings and have five Blue Moons before I get on a cross country flight.  I won’t even do that Burbank to Vegas.  I’ll have the five Blue Moons, but I’m skipping the Panda Express.  I care about the other 176 people on my flight and that’s why I have a routine.  I get up early.  I eat.  I have a cup of coffee, take care of business, take a shower and go to the airport,  because I care.  Because I don’t want to be “that guy”.   Also, one time I went camping, and I woke myself up in my sleep with a very large tremor in my digestive ducts.  A little bunny,  more like a big, evil Donnie Darko bunny.  To wake me, from a sound sleep? I once slept through having a glass dropped on my face.  I was asleep in a hallway.   I like to sleep on planes, but I can’t, because I’m paranoid that my colon is gonna throw a party while the parents are away.  So I forego the sleep.   On my last flight, somebody’s colon was charging three bucks at the door.  It was so rank, I thought that the perpetrator would immediately be apprehended by the Air Marshall.  Detain the bastard, put him on a no fly list like a goddamned terrorist.   Parade him through the terminal in cuffs and a towel like a crazed David Lee Roth in the Panama video.  Nothing.  Nothing happened.  Just a continuous blast of damaged recycled air.  Twenty minutes later, the same fowl, lingering aroma.  Like fresh hot August, Filet O Fish asphalt.  It was all coming from the early 20′s.  Probably a window, shifty window people.   It could have only been one of sixteen people.  Lets roll!   Lets get this guy. My head searched for an ally.  Eye contact, anybody?  You smell that?  Right?  Now I’ve been told on more than one occasion, that I have been blessed with heightened olfactories, but come on man?  That thing smelled like a Sunday morning at the Jersey Shore, and it didn’t fucking stop.  Now you’re just disrespecting me.  You and your love of Quizno’s are just telling me to go fuck myself in the face.  Look I’m no purist.  I think flatulence is just as funny as the next guy, and it has it’s place, in yoga, or an old age home or an Arby’s.  But hot boxing a 737 is where I draw the line.  I thought maybe it was the caliber of people who fly Southwest.  Those flights are like a Mexican clown car in the sky.   No, it happened on Jet Blue.  It happened on Virgin.  It happened on Continental, Alaska, British Airways, and it needs to stop.  I can’t lead a revolt.  I can’t demand answers.  I can’t pull on the seat in front of me with all my weight despite the fact that it’s not really a hand-rail, it’s someone’s seat, and stand up and ask the culprit to come forward and admit his transgressions.  I can’t do that.  Because as wrong as it is to bust ass on an airplane people will think I’m the asshole!  I’m the crazy one.  Look at that dick standing up trying to embarass someone who does have any respect for the rest of us, what a D-bag.  Don’t look at me.  That guy right there in 17 B is the one who broke out the Jersey Mike’s and the jalapeno Pringles.  Bro?  How do think that meat gets to the terminal?  It gets carted in a lexan through a radioactive x-ray machine. You might as well lick the urinal in the mens room.  Your body is like, gets this crap out of me, now!  The Sierra Mist is not gonna help.  But must of us know better and to humiliate someone is cruel, so instead we just have to suck it up, literally.  And so I propose this.  I propose that every flight should have a half collie half spaniel on board.  Like the one we had as a kid, “Muffin”.   My Mom got her in front of a Kmart, and any time somebody petted her,  she would whiz all over the kitchen linoleum.  She was a great dog and she used to hunt those wafts like pigs on a truffle.  It’s Pretty simple, the second it gets rank, “Muffin/Boomer/Charlie or whatever dog you can get from the pound,  goes to work.   You would sure as shit think twice about it if you knew the consequence of your inconsiderate sphincter was the very real possibility of having a rescue dog burrowing in you Wrangler’s.  So how about it?  Save a dog.  Save a flight.  Flying sucks as it is.  Give us all the courtesy we deserve.  Cramped and anxious is enough, don’t you think… appreciate it 17 B.