The Weirdest Flight Probably EVER

Dan Pearce, Single Dad Laughing

I can’t decide if last week I took the most awesome airplane ride from London to Las Vegas ever, or if it was the absolute crappiest. Either way, it was chalk-full of extraordinariness.

Any singular part of that plane ride would have made it a craptastic plane ride. For sure. But collectively? Gosh. I think the whole how-to-look-at-it game changes.

I was seated in 31G (an aisle seat) right next to a short yet large statured man. He spent the entire 10 hour and 17 minute flight hanging halfway into my seat. This, in turn, made me have to hang out halfway into the aisle where every Tom, Bill, and Henrietta then spent said flight smacking into me as they passed. No fewer than half a dozen times my elbow was knocked clean off of my own single armrest. I’m sure I have a splendid neck injury from all the whiplash.

Now, I should be mad at the guy. He was hanging into my seat and hogging my space. But see, I couldn’t be mad because the guy next to him was hanging clear over into his seat. And I couldn’t even be mad at that guy because the woman on the other end, in the opposite aisle seat in our same row, was just so jolly and rotund that she couldn’t help but take up more than her fair share of sitting space. We were like a tower of tipped dominoes all the way to Vegas, and let me tell you… having the edge of your seat crammed into the middle of your back is not the most pleasant of things. I mean, it’s fairly pleasant, but not the most pleasant.

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But, you see… The space encroachment played such a small role in the amazingness that took place on this flight.

There was also Chucky. I don’t know why I’m naming him that, some guys just have that “Chucky” look to them. He was the guy sitting across the aisle from me, and he was a special sort of guy with a special sort of wife. They both seemed like the types of people who would cry hysterically if I asked them for the time. So you can imagine that I certainly did not want to ask him to get his butt crack out of my face.

Yes, my friends, almost the entire duration of the flight, this man stood in the aisle with his exposed butt aimed straight at me. He didn’t have a cute butt crack by any means (do those exist?). No, he had one of those gaping Grand Canyon butt cracks that was dark, and deep, and hairy, and awful.

Now, you will be tempted to think that what I am about to tell you is a lie, but I assure you it is the 100% honest truth.

Not just once, but twice, this man’s Grand Canyon butt crack bumped into the side of my face. Almost every time I looked over, it was simply there, like it was waiting for someone to ride a donkey down into it.

About a quarter of the way through the flight I about lost my cool as I sat being pushed from one side into the aisle, and struggling not to have too much of a grown Englishman’s ass rubbed up on me. But then I looked at this guy, and I looked at his wife. And I’m telling you. They would have been sobbing and I would have looked like the jerk of the century had I said anything.

And you know what? I was annoyed with the encroachment from both sides. For sure. But nothing was as bad as who knows who was farting the rankiest and crankiest of farts, every five minutes like clockwork, all the way from Gatwick to Nevada. About one in six of those farts was so bad that I became physically ill. My detective skills told me it was no one in our dominoed row, and it was not Grand Canyon Chucky. He was so close I would have felt the breeze of them and my eyes would have burned clean out of the sockets. My best guess, based on the frequency, and based on how he shifted so often in his seat, and how every time people started gagging he put his head down like nothing was happening, was that it was the guy two rows up who was wearing, and I am not making this up, Tasmanian Devil pajama pants and a wife beater. (Please award me something for the best run-on sentence of all time, there.)

Hey. I was in my own sweat pants. They had a chocolate smear down the front of them. In no way am I saying I was better than this guy. In fact, I congratulate the fellow on traveling comfortably when so many others don’t. I just wish, assuming it was him, that he would have afforded all of us the same.

Oh. Guess what. This flight got more awesome. Or more awful. I’m still not sure.

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Dan Pearce is an American born writer, photographer, and artist. His books include "The All-Important, Well-Fed, Giant White Man" and "The Real Dad Rules." He is best known for his blog (and supporting Facebook page) "Single Dad Laughing," with 2 million followers as of 2018.