[Written somewhere between San Diego and Las Vegas. A week old, but hey, I’ve been dealing with some jet-lag that won’t go away…or maybe it’s a broken heart…]
So, I decided within a few minutes of taking my seat on my flight back to (insert home city that I don’t really care to come back to, since it’s not San Diego,) that the guy next to me was a cross between a nervous pig and an alien. (Guy on my right, if you happen to glance over and read my screen, I’m not talking about you. You’re fine.) This other fella has not stopped fidgeting. chewing fingernails, picking his teeth, scratching his nose, wiping his brow…non-stop movement. And right before takeoff, as we’re taxiing down the runway, and the attendant reminds us to have our tray tables up, this jack ignores him, puts his tray table down, and pulls out a greasy box of…something, then viciously attacks the fare inside. Yes, I do mean attack. I could’ve played sounds of Cookie Monster scarfing down a delectable oatmeal raisin, and it couldn’t have been more appropriate. And don’t get me started on the finger licking and smacking. I think it was then (or after he hemmed me in by crossing his obscenely long legs) I decided that if it came down to it, I wouldn’t be saving his neurotic ass, even if I am seated in the emergency exit row.
When I thought it might be best to keep my eyes closed until my aggravation cooled to a simmer, a baby in the row in front of me began shrieking. And not the spoiled brat crying, this poor child sounded like her brains were being pulled out of her nose like in an Egyptian mummification ceremony.
Ah, at least it’s a short flight. Descending into Vegas, so I won’t go into how I was beginning to suspect the three passengers in front of me were actually performing experimental surgery on that baby. Maybe Mr. Smacking-Licky fingers next to me would’ve found her tasty. She’s quiet now, so much so that I wouldn’t be surprised if chloroform was involved…