Waiting In A Long Line To Pee

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“The woman standing at the back of the plane is about to piss her pants. I know this because five minutes ago she crawled over me and said, “I’m sorry to disturb you Mr. Rowe, but I’m about to piss my pants.” Sadly, the kid across the aisle beat her to it. No doubt about it. The whole plane smells of urine, and it’s not coming from the bathroom. It’s coming from the kid.

We’re on a CRJ700 – a Canadair Regional Jet flying from San Francisco to Kansas City. It’s a three hour flight, but it feels a lot longer. Why? Because the CRJ700 was designed by The Marquis de Sade. There’s only one bathroom on board, and it’s all the way in the back. One bathroom for 74 people. On a three-hour flight that was delayed on the tarmac for 35 minutes.

Seasoned travelers will immediately understand the implications, and behave accordingly. But most of my fellow passengers do not possess the institutional knowledge required to endure three and a half hours on a CRJ700. At the airport, they drink their breakfast beverages like it was any other day, enjoying their lattes and orange juice with impunity. Then they blithely board this long and skinny Tube of Despair with no sense of how a solitary toilet can conspire with a bad floor plan to humble the strongest among us. Once settled, many avail themselves of the beverage service, cruelly offered by a smiling flight attendant who must have surely known what would follow. Poor bastards.

It began with lots of anxious head-turning – the way it always does when people realize they’re on a plane with only one crapper located far behind them. People needing relief look worriedly toward the back of the plane to see if the restroom is occupied. Invariably, it is. So they stay seated, but they keep looking back every five seconds. The effect is interesting. As more heads turn, more people realize their own need is identical to the need of those around them – and getting worse. So a line forms in the aisle. Not good.

Soon, people realize the inevitable – we’re all going to need to urinate before landing – but not necessarily at the precise moment of our own choosing. Thus, the fundamental certainty upon which all continence depends is suddenly compromised, and a series of unusual but pressing questions begin to form in the mind every traveler.

When exactly, does one get up and join the line? Does one wait until one needs to go, or does one wait in a line of ever-changing length? What is the proper protocol? Are those seated closer to the restroom obligated to remain seated if they see someone getting up in front of them? Do women and children deserve some kind of deference? If so, how much?

These questions are important, because standing in line to pee on the CRJ700 is a journey in personal humiliation. The aisles are so narrow it’s impossible to remain upright without invading the personal space of those still seated. (If you zoom in to my seat-mate, now standing in the back, you’ll see that her ass now occupies the space reserved for the face of the man still in 17C. That guy, or whatever’s left of him, is now crammed into the lap of the stranger next to him, who is no doubt trying to jam himself through the window, happy to pay the ultimate price for a little fresh air.) Point is, waiting in line to pee on a CRJ700 is actually worse than pissing your pants, as evidenced by the peaceful countenance of the soggy kid, sleeping across the aisle.

Anyway, the situation really devolved an hour ago, when the line grew to fifteen people. Everyone who hadn’t yet peed was fumbling through a personal calculus involving time, space, bladder capacity, prior liquid intake, arrival time, and basic self-control. Those in line were the most desperate, and no doubt counting the minutes to relief. Alas, they forgot to factor in the big unknown – turbulence. As we flew through some very heavy chop, the Captain demanded everyone take their seats. Desperate people who had been waiting in line – some for a half hour – had no choice but to follow orders. Mutiny was out of the question, as the chop would have made hitting the toilet – even from a seated position – all but impossible.

The agony in the plane was palpable, and when the safety belt sign was finally turned off twenty minutes later, it was like a scene from Pamplona. The stampede toward the stern was immediate and chaotic. Good manners and decorum were forgotten, as once civilized people scratched and clawed their way over the young and helpless, fighting backwards for a few private moments in a defiled outhouse 37,000 feet in the sky.

I have pictures, but out of respect, I’m not going to show you. After yesterday’s post, I’m worried about sharing as much as I already have. I will however, show you the inside of the briefing card, which the flight attendant strongly advised we refer to during the mandatory safety briefing of the CRJ700. In it, you’ll see all sorts of helpful illustrations regarding what to do in the event of an emergency.

Alas – there are no helpful tips for how to politely pee all over yourself and your neighbor.

Mike”

Funny how there are times that one can actually relate to a Facebook status update, as this was the case yesterday as I browsed my rather uneventful wall. I stumbled across yet another Mike Rowe status update that really hit home. Eventhough I don’t fly nowadays unless, well, I don’t fly but I drive, but back in my Air Force days this little story told here was true more often than not, especially on those long international flights we love to hate so much. The status update and the picture used above have been shared here without permission, I hope Mike Rowe doesn’t mind.

Posted From Scorpion Sting’s Motorola Droid Maxx!

Do Yourself And The World Giant Favor

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Just pull your fucking pants up so we don’t have to see your ass.. I’m not talking about those of you who just need a belt, I am talking to those of you who can’t seem to get your pants pulled up past your knees. Yes, you, I am talking to you. Normally I find seeing some dumb fucktard with his pants around his knees very humorous, I might even giggle out loud where I can be heard, but nonetheless I find humor in your failure to wear your clothes in a proper manner while in public. Bit who am I, I am not the fashion police, I just have a little common sense when dressing myself and try very hard not to let the family jewels swing out in public. Why? Because I give a shit about what I look like when I walk out my front door, even if I am going to Walmart. Well, Scorp,what are you trying to get across here? My point is that nobody, and I mean nobody, wants to see your pants down at your knees, ever. A simple, yet often overlooked, point in our society. I don’t know how it is where you live but it is a common sight to see in the youth and young adults around here. What brings all of this up?  Hold your pants up people I am getting to that right now.

Earlier today I was visiting a local flea market to kill some time and to see if I could buy something that could raise an eyebrow on my wife’s face. I don’t always get things that impress her if you must know, so now we have this little inside joke about it when I go out alone. As I meandered around the market I saw the good, the bad, and the ugly, sometimes all rolled up in one thing. Not much really tickled my tail feathers so I moved about in a quicker fashion than normal, I wasn’t hunting, I was fishing, but without a real and direct purpose. Then, out of the corner of my squintly little eye I see this jackass giving a shop owner some grief. Allot of yelling and cussing on his part as he tried to make his point. But let’s back up a bit, let’s give you a chance to see what I was seeing. The shop sold leather goods of all sorts, western style furniture, and some western style antiques. The shop owner, looking 50ish, appears to be of Korean descent but I could be wrong because everything I heard heard her say out loud was in English with no real discernible accent. The man, late teens to early twenties, was white, and dressed like an early eighties gang banger flaunting his “colors” everywhere possible. Crisp white wife beater tank top, dark color boxer shorts, and nylon jogging pants with the waistband straddling his knees. When I say he was white, I mean dayglow vampire he never sees daylight white. He hurt my sensitive eyes when I looked at him and there was a glare, like that glare that comes when the sun hits the windshield of my truck in late afternoon, yes, he was that white. After I got nosey and started listening in I was struck to find out that she was refusing to let him come inside unless he pulled his pants up. He demanded it is a free country he lives in and he has the right to come and go as he pleases without being harassed by some old bitch selling country shit nobody buys. The question in my head was wanting to ask then why do you want to go in. Why? Form this very reason, to be able to make a scene or his need to be seen being the scene, whichever.

Normally I would keep my big fat mouth closed and laugh at this ass clown on the inside. However, my fucktard detector was pegging out and I really wanted to go into that little shop. So I approached, I spoke very clearly when I told him “excuse me, I would like to get by you so I may go in the store”. His return reply was ” hey cracker, go fuck yourself somewhere else ’cause I’m about to lite this bitch right here on flames”. Ummmmm? So I became a wee bit more aggressive and explained (while showing him my very impressive .50 cal Desert Eagle twins) that him leaving would be the best choice he had made all day. I think I scared him, because I looked down below the thugs fleets and saw he was standing in a puddle that wasn’t there moments ago. I cannot confirm or deny where the puddle came from but it wasn’t raining and nothing was spilled. A few other like minded people stepped up, grabbed him rather roughly, and helped him on his way expeditiously. Man, I love it when bikers jump into a fight! Bikers don’t fuck around when there are ass whippings to have. Unless, they are like doctor or lawyer weekend lawyers, then they are worried about their nails and their own fashion. Pussies. Wannabes. Anyway, it ended with out incident. OK, the punk kid was right, she was selling overpriced reproductions and knock offs that really was cheap shit, even by my standards.

The moral of the story boys and girls is to just pull your fucking pants up so the waistband is around your fucking waist. Its not rocket science,I am not asking you to provide me with tangible evidence that sasquach exists, I don’t need to know how the whole jackalope thing got started, just pull up your fucking pants. It isfor your safety and for ours. So, suck it up princess, bend over and pull up your pants. On a serious note, no thugs were hurt in my immediate vicinity that was visible to me. By the way, some woman was stupid enough to stick her finger in the puddle and return a sample to her nose, her expert opinion was that it was piss. Bonus. And for the rest of y’all, never stick your finger in an unknown puddle to smell or taste. Ewww, its just not smart in any way, at all, and really disgusting as well. So, did I buy anything? Yes, a full on ice cream in one of them there sugary waffle cones. It was vanilla, no topping, no frills, and no sprinkles. And the dicey cold sugary greatness was divine. First full flavor with sugar ice cream I have had in 2 years and it was fucking outstanding Private Pyle!