If I thought my luck had changed, yesterday was the perfect reminder of why I friggin’ hate flying. Actually, the flying part is not so bad, but there’s something about actually getting to the flying part that I seem to have lots of trouble with. Sometimes it’s weather, sometimes it’s missing crew members. Sometimes it’s six hours on the tarmac for no real reason at all. Yesterday, it was bad brakes. The brakes on the plane were broken. As in, had we taken off, you’d have seen our landing on the news. And as exciting as all that sounds, I don’t want my fifteen minutes of fame to consist of local TV broadcast hysterics. So, we didn’t take off and I got to spend five fun-filled hours in the international terminal of the DFW airport listening to screetching children and (totally not kidding) watching an old man dig stuff out from under his toenails.
The moral of this story is, if you see me waiting for your flight, you’re not going anywhere. Except maybe Chicago, where you’ll be diverted for an overnight stay in a Comfort Inn & Suites.
The best part is, it only got more colorful in the air. My seatmate, a hairdresser in his late twenties, was clearly tweaking. With jerks and stutters, he handed me an ear bud so I could share some tunes after which he launched into a heartwarming tale of Why Gay People Make the World Just Really Uncomfortable.
“You know?” he said, scratching the heart tattoo on the side of his neck.
“No,” I said. “I really don’t.”
I searched for a name tag one hundred percent certain he was some kind of bigot missionary, flying the friendly skies, recruiting for the cause. Not a bigot? Join us! We throw great parties. The conversation was less the confortable, but I told myself just to go with it. Why not? It might be worth the entertainment value. But just as I was about to ask for a take-home tract on how to hate your neighbors, he got to the part in the story that referenced the size of his penis.
“I’m a big guy,” he explained. “I mean, I’m big all over..”
At which point he raised his eyebrows and nodded in the general vicinity of his crotch.
“So I just, you know, put it out there and I’m like, in the bathroom of a GAY BAR and it’s all mirrors everywhere and the GAY DUDES are all like, STARING at me.”
Having had enough of colorful for the day, I gave the tweaker a sheepish smile, excused myself and pretended to fall asleep. Next time, I’m totally going to pretend not to speak English.
LOLOL…oh Fish…. I’m sorry….LOL… and I don’t mean to laugh….lol…. Yup, it takes all kinds of people to make a world…lol. I’m just really sorry they seem to have been on your flight.
My strangest conversation this week…. I’m in the market for a new couch so when I called to follow up on my initial visit, I was able to speak to the guy that helped me out. Our conversation wasn’t four minutes into it when it turned intimate and strangely sexual. (Apologies as I wouldn’t even attempt to repeat what was actually said. Whew!) NEXT.
Yup… it takes all kinds of people….. lol
You could have said, “Mine was big too, before the operation”.
Maybe you don’t get where you’re going on time, but you sure have great stories when you come back….
EW to the old man cleaning his toenails in public.
And as to the tweaker, OMG! I wonder if he tries to bring in the size of his penis into every conversation.
Do I even need to ask what he’s doing on a gay bar if he’s so uncomfortable around gay men?
not speaking english is a perfect out. even then, though, some people just don’t get it. thanks for sharing – although a bit painful for you… it was a good laugh for me.
I had to sit next to a guy once who decided it was a good time to flip through a porno mag. Who does that?
Hilarious!!!!
Not speaking the language is not always an out. When I flew home from HK, a persistent Chinese grandma attempted to communicate her movie preferences with pokes and grunts and then yelled at me in Cantonese when she thought I picked the wrong movie. I didn’t, but couldn’t communicate to her that she had to wait for the commercials to finish.
That is just…horrifying. I no longer have any bitterness about my hour-long delay last Friday, so thank you.
I feel your pain. I once was on a flight to Kansas City and was sitting next to this older gentleman…probably in his 50s (mind you, I was like…22). I was polite and continued conversation with him during most of the flight. Right when we were about to land, he asked me how long I was staying in KC and would I would be interested in going to a roller coaster park with him. I told him I was going to be REALLY busy.
I just sprayed tea out of my nose!
you made a somewhat uncomfortable situation seemed like an ordinary conversation. you have a way with words, that’s nice. it seems you’re more than just a pretty face after all..
So should not have been eating during the reading of this post. First reason: totally grossed out by toenails. Sorry you had to witness that. Second reason: Almost choked while laughing at the penis reference. Only you Fish, only you.
Mine isn’t a flying horror story, rather it’s of the dating variety…
I once was at a dinner-dance geared toward “successful single professionals”. When I got there I realized that it was actually geared toward “unattractive middle-aged desperados”. I was 32 years old at the time, and everyone else was 45+! Ugh.
I only stayed about an hour, and was asked to dance by increasingly unattractive and desperate men. As I was getting up to leave, a mid-forties-ish man asked me to dance. I thanked him and told him I was leaving. He smiled, looked down at his crotch, looked back up at me, and said, “Everything works!”
Um, spank you. Spank you very much!
Hoo, boy. If only frequent flier miles were based on how long a flight felt instead of how much ground it covered.
…that guy was gay. Gay people make him uncomfortable because he doesn’t want to come to term with the fact that he is, in fact, gay.
Any man who is SO EXCITED by the fact that gay men stared at his penis that he feels driven to tell an absolute stranger about it on an airplane…is aroused by the fact that gay men stared at his penis. That’s my take on it, anyway.
Or better still, pretend to speak a little bit of English and have Borat-like fun with the fellow