No Angry Birds on my Virgin America flight last week.
BUT, there were gaseous birds who lit up the flight with noxious fumes.
The explosions begane 20 minutes into the flight and were staggered, but at hour 3 the heavens opened up and the cabin was consumed with the most disgusting odor. It invaded nasal passages, clothing and the front of the plane was gagging and intently searching for the culprit.
I had lost all sense of dignity and pressed the call point for a flight atendant. She sidled up to my aisle seat and I asked her if she could conduct a fart investigation.
Unfortunately, she said they could not approach passengers regarding gaseous omissions. If it was nail polish, polish remover, perfume applications she could inquire.
My row, which was comprised of two adorable New Yorkers who were heading to Los Angeles for a 28th birthday celebration, had their heads in the vomit bags.
Courtney, the gracious and attractive blonde flight attendant, came up with a brilliant solution to the problem. She handed us a pouch of ground coffee and we held the bag to our face like an oxygen mask. We sat and happily inhaled the chicory aroma for 30 minutes.
Yes, I did inhale.
Thankfully, after releasing the coffee pouch, the offending passenger had apparently emptied their tank and we were able to breath again.
Once again, the pressing issue of entitlement captivated me. How can a human being think they can conceal a fart on a plane? My mother would give me a timeout if she knew I spoken the word or even transcribed it. Her dainty term is fluffy.
Passengers, please I am imploring you, in future sequester your gaseous self within the confines of an onboard bathroom next time the urge arises.
Now, I am even more enamored of coffee. I love the beverage, hot or cold. Not only is it a desirable stimulant, the reason to get out of bed in the morning, a great excuse to meet up with peeps, but it is also a room deodorizer and an effective defender against gaseous plunderers.
We landed 30 minutes early and we all made a dash for the exit and fresh air.
I was curiously dying for a cup of coffee.
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No Angry Birds on my Virgin America flight last week.
BUT, there were gaseous birds who lit up the flight with noxious fumes.
The explosions begane 20 minutes into the flight and were staggered, but at hour 3 the heavens opened up and the cabin was consumed with the most disgusting odor. It invaded nasal passages, clothing and the front of the plane was gagging and intently searching for the culprit.
I had lost all sense of dignity and pressed the call point for a flight atendant. She sidled up to my aisle seat and I asked her if she could conduct a fart investigation.
Unfortunately, she said they could not approach passengers regarding gaseous omissions. If it was nail polish, polish remover, perfume applications she could inquire.
My row, which was comprised of two adorable New Yorkers who were heading to Los Angeles for a 28th birthday celebration, had their heads in the vomit bags.
Courtney, the gracious and attractive blonde flight attendant, came up with a brilliant solution to the problem. She handed us a pouch of ground coffee and we held the bag to our face like an oxygen mask. We sat and happily inhaled the chicory aroma for 30 minutes.
Yes, I did inhale.
Thankfully, after releasing the coffee pouch, the offending passenger had apparently emptied their tank and we were able to breath again.
Once again, the pressing issue of entitlement captivated me. How can a human being think they can conceal a fart on a plane? My mother would give me a timeout if she knew I spoken the word or even transcribed it. Her dainty term is fluffy.
Passengers, please I am imploring you, in future sequester your gaseous self within the confines of an onboard bathroom next time the urge arises.
Now, I am even more enamored of coffee. I love the beverage, hot or cold. Not only is it a desirable stimulant, the reason to get out of bed in the morning, a great excuse to meet up with peeps, but it is also a room deodorizer and an effective defender against gaseous plunderers.
We landed 30 minutes early and we all made a dash for the exit and fresh air.
I was curiously dying for a cup of coffee.
Discover more from If The Devil Had Menopause
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.