“Traveling today is not like it use be!” everyone complains. Long security lines, ridiculous regulations and surly TSA employees are just the start. Then you get crammed onto another full flight where you have less leg room than a first-grader’s desk. On my recent flight, there was no movie to ease the pain (thanks a lot, Northwest Airlines!) but you could enjoy the privilege of purchasing a box of crapfood for five bucks. Five hours later, and you’re on the other coast—which is less time than it will take for your poor legs to uncramp.
All of this is the new reality that most of us have actually become accustomed to.
None of this, however, is what I hate about flying.
What I hate about flying is the smell. Two hundred fifty breathing, sweating, sloughing off skin-ing, belching and FARTING people crammed into a space designed for half that many with absolutely no escape. I don’t despise my fellow human except for when he (or she, but I think mostly he) is farting on me. Yes, ON me. The air is moving around my body and I am in the middle of it so the fart-filled molecules are falling on me and my clothes. I am breathing the fart-filled molecules into my nose—and I shudder to think of where they originated.
Farting on the shuttle bus, farting in the security line, farting on the jetway, farting for three thousand miles at thirty five thousand miles up.
It’s a good thing they’re not allowing passengers to light up anymore, or we’d all be blown to pieces.
I hate flying. It’s the farting, my friend.
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