My usual flying routine, practiced for many years, involves the Three Strike Rule. Neglect to eat healthy and light the day before and the day of flight: strike one. IBS: strike two. Do everything last minute, get all worked up, and try to relax with a few drinks in the lounge: strike three.
I arrived at the airport like a dejected batter heading for the dugout.
Taking matters into my own hands, I tried to lessen the inevitable by launching a preemptive turd at the gate restroom. It actually went quite well, but I had this nagging feeling in my guts that this was the tip of the brown iceberg, and that clouds were looming on the horizon.
About three hours into the flight, I began to feel the rumblings of dissent permeating my bowels. A revolution was brewing. Che and his army were preparing for attack. I decided to get up and stretch, and this helped a bit, but as I sat back down, one of Che's scouts escaped. It was, fortunately, only a fart, but I could tell by the smell that I only had minutes left.
I got up, cast a disgusted look at my aisle-mate, and headed to the back of the plane. My fart continued its evil loop through the ventilation system.
Now, I'm not a Big Brother Is Watching type, but I'm convinced there are hidden cameras in plane shitters that feed directly to the cockpit. These damn fly-boys knew what I was about to do and decided to head towards some turbulence in response. Thus, as soon as I entered the bathroom: "Passengers, please return to your seats. We are heading into some bumpy air." And there I was, about to take a ten-minute shit.
The rocking of the plane seemed to churn up Che and his men until they unleashed their attack in a frightening wave. Shit blew out of my ass like an evil brown lahar while I was tossed about the cubicle like a shit-filled beach ball. The noise was deafening and the smell putrid as Rosie O'Donnell's bike seat. I felt that at any second it would eat through the fuselage and I would be sucked out to my death.
As fast as it came on, it was over that abruptly. The battle was won: Che and his men now occupied the toilet. All that was left was a clean-up and a dignified exit. The story could end here.
But noooo. There was still one more pocket of unstable air ahead, and it had my name scribbled all over it. As I leaned forward to grab some paper, the plane lurched to the side and dropped like a rock. At that time, for one nanosecond, I was airborne. Free of the toilet. Weightless, if you will.
In that same nanosecond, the plane managed to travel forward six inches without me; and when I landed, I hit with a plop. A squishy plop. An ass-on-the-rim squishy plop.
There is a math formula out there (and I'm sure my friend BVC knows it) that will prove that the smell of smeared shit is exponentially proportional to the area of shittage exposed. We're talking the area of a small country here.
I began to clean up in earnest, lest there be more surprises ahead. Wipe, wipe, wipe, lather, rinse, repeat, all the while watching the edges of the door curling as the gas escaped into the cabin. After about five flushes, I was done. All I had to do was plan my escape.
I had it! I would quietly exit, find an empty seat near the front (there were plenty), and try to tune out the death gasps that would surely follow in the back. Since I was in the rear, I would only see the passengers' backs, and would not be noticed. Perfect!
I opened the door. Alas, fate had one final blow to deal me. There, thanks to the turbulence, strapped to their jump seats, were two young cabin attendants. Their eyes looked as if they had seen Satan having sex with Pat Robertson. They had heard everything, and they would soon smell everything.
What could I do? Eye contact had been made. I was the guilty one. I just smiled, nodded, and thought to myself, "It must suck to be you." I then found my seat and slept like a baby.