Anyone that breathes on me, unless requested, will be looked at with hairy eyeballs. I was in a church last Monday evening and the festivities were fairly well attended. I was sitting next to a few buddies of mine both of whom do not have this "thing" I have. When the main event got under way, we all hushed up to listen in since we are devout. Yes, devout.
It didn't take long for my ears to hone in on something. Somewhere behind me someone was snoring or drowning on their own blood and mucus. I completely turned around to scan the audience for a partially slumped over carcass, but to no avail. Within a minute, the situation took a dramatic turn for the worse. Now not only was I hearing this dull roar over the speaker, but I inhaled the distinct odor of halitosis. Trust me, I know what it smells like. I dated a girl who earned the nick name "Haley Tosis" unbeknownst to her. Suffice it to say, our relationship did not last the test of time, but the name is etched in stone.
At that moment, the circumstances of my dilemma became all to clear. The mutant behind me had an awful cold and a case of ass-breath to boot. Having put this together, I immediately craned my head slowly around so as to deliver the first round of hairy eyeballs. As anyone that has sat in a church pew for an hour knows, you often lean forward when you're sitting to break the monotony of just sitting straight up. If there is a pretty girl in front of you, you can also smell her hair, which is an added bonus. Who knows...maybe I was this guy's pretty girl. At any rate, my head is now pretty much in the pew in front of me so as to get as far away from the tainted air as possible. In my mind though, the air was embracing me just like the sleeves of a cashmere sweater tied around the neck of a yuppie prepster at the country club. I must seek sanitization.
Much like being on a plane, I typically prefer an aisle seat just for occasions like this. Bailing out is not an issue. On Monday, February 9th I was boxed between Chris and Todd. Damn it. Where's Batman when you need him? Just drop through one of the stained glass windows and swoop me up like Vicki Vale with one of those funky gadgets. All I can do is wait until it's over to get the hell out of there, but wait. What about that old shaking/holding hands part near the end? Shiiiiite. That would be the equivalent of receiving a stink-palm. Remember Mall Rats?
I stuck it out and then dodged this guy like Brother Dermot when I was late for homeroom. There was no jumping over pews, but I wasn't ruling it out either. I decided the best idea was to go load up on Air Borne Formula, and tell my tale to my main muchacha. She consoled me as best she could, God bless her. However, I think she may have a bit more in common with Chris and Todd when it comes to this "thing," e.g. not believing that this man should be treated as if he just contracted SARS and bird flu and was deliberately trying to infect me. I got home and took a shower and swore that if I was ever confronted with such a situation again, that I would do more than just look at him with hairy eyeballs. I would tell him to beat it and while he was at it, to gargle with bleach. There's a good chance I see him again this Monday. I think his name was Gary. Gary....who's Gary?
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Shit Shoes McGee
So I was on a flight from JFK to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico on 11/29/08. I always request an aisle seat because I typically drink so much water and coffee in the morning that I could be on an over-active bladder commercial. I'm sitting in my seat looking at my fellow passengers with my usual contempt when I notice a guy just across the aisle. He's about 60 years old with a graying mustache and hair. Dressed in the usual attire that some guy his age that is not traveling with a woman wears. You know what I mean. They're his Sunday's best, and he knows he looks good.
As I do this head-to-toe scan of a TJ Maxx special button down, white khakis and whoa, what's that on those white sneakers. You guessed it. Shit all over his sneakers. I don't mean just on the bottom of one. It was smudged around the upper back heel part as well as up by his toes and also on the bottom. Basically this poor bastard tried to polish his shoes with shit. We haven't even pushed back yet, and I'm in full panic mode fearing that I might start smelling it next. I mean, this is going to be a long flight.
This could have been Pope Benedict, but since he was sitting next to me, with feces on his sneaks, I instantly hate this man. I know that if the plane goes down, he's the last one I'm helping. We take off smoothly, and Shit Shoes McGee finally looks down and notices the train wreck on his feet. He kicks off his shoes and slides to the window seat because there is no one else sitting in his row. Now, the sneaks are just sitting there smouldering 3 feet from me at the aisle seat. Let's fast forward to the good part.
Just before we begin our descent and Shit Shoes realizes that he can't step onto the tarmac looking like this. He proceeds to take napkins that he hoarded during drink service to wipe the shit off his sneakers. This wasn't working so well, so he takes an ice cube out of his drink and holds it on the soiled part of his sneakers. He wipes again with the napkins which he then stuffs into the seat pocket in front of him. At this point I'm dry heaving and seconds away from full body convulsions.
Shit Shoes is no dummy; he's quite a resourceful fellow. Realizing he needs more surface area, he grabs the Delta blanket that was so cordially provided to him and attempts to remove the stool with that. Now I've seen more than enough. My feelings for him go beyond loath. He works diligently with the blanket/ice cube combo for about 3 minutes until the white sneaks meet his satisfaction. With a carefree whim about him, he tosses the blanket to side for some poor soul to pick up and fold and probably put back into the plastic for someone else to use.
I spent two weeks down there surfing, eating, meeting new friends, and telling anyone that would listen about what I witnessed on the plane. When Sadie and I got on the plane to head back on 12/13/08 I took my seat and looked at her with a quiet sincerity that is unusual for me and said, "see that guy right there? That's him. That's Shit Shoes McGee."
As I do this head-to-toe scan of a TJ Maxx special button down, white khakis and whoa, what's that on those white sneakers. You guessed it. Shit all over his sneakers. I don't mean just on the bottom of one. It was smudged around the upper back heel part as well as up by his toes and also on the bottom. Basically this poor bastard tried to polish his shoes with shit. We haven't even pushed back yet, and I'm in full panic mode fearing that I might start smelling it next. I mean, this is going to be a long flight.
This could have been Pope Benedict, but since he was sitting next to me, with feces on his sneaks, I instantly hate this man. I know that if the plane goes down, he's the last one I'm helping. We take off smoothly, and Shit Shoes McGee finally looks down and notices the train wreck on his feet. He kicks off his shoes and slides to the window seat because there is no one else sitting in his row. Now, the sneaks are just sitting there smouldering 3 feet from me at the aisle seat. Let's fast forward to the good part.
Just before we begin our descent and Shit Shoes realizes that he can't step onto the tarmac looking like this. He proceeds to take napkins that he hoarded during drink service to wipe the shit off his sneakers. This wasn't working so well, so he takes an ice cube out of his drink and holds it on the soiled part of his sneakers. He wipes again with the napkins which he then stuffs into the seat pocket in front of him. At this point I'm dry heaving and seconds away from full body convulsions.
Shit Shoes is no dummy; he's quite a resourceful fellow. Realizing he needs more surface area, he grabs the Delta blanket that was so cordially provided to him and attempts to remove the stool with that. Now I've seen more than enough. My feelings for him go beyond loath. He works diligently with the blanket/ice cube combo for about 3 minutes until the white sneaks meet his satisfaction. With a carefree whim about him, he tosses the blanket to side for some poor soul to pick up and fold and probably put back into the plastic for someone else to use.
I spent two weeks down there surfing, eating, meeting new friends, and telling anyone that would listen about what I witnessed on the plane. When Sadie and I got on the plane to head back on 12/13/08 I took my seat and looked at her with a quiet sincerity that is unusual for me and said, "see that guy right there? That's him. That's Shit Shoes McGee."
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