Travel and Pooping

Shit Happens. To everyone every day. It is a necessary part of life. Now, where is it most comfortable to poop? In your own bathroom of course. It is clean…or if not, at least you know who the germs belong to. The act of pooping is different every time. Sometimes it is taken care of quickly…like that beautiful morning post cup of coffee and cigarette poop. Done and Done. Let's start a good day! Other times, shit happens where you don't want it to.

Example: On an airplane. You sit in your seat wedged between fat strangers and think "No problem, just a little gas, readjust the position of the bootie and all will be fine". Then, you start to sweat a little bit. You look down many rows of coach and see hords of disgruntled people with their scowls and their germy hands and even germy-er other parts. As they wait on line for the metal hole called a bathroom, you refuse to admit that you have to poop. A few minutes later…still sweating…still adjusting the boot-hey ...adding in a little butt squeeze…there is no denying it.

Now, you start doing math. That's right. Math. How long have I been on this flight? How much longer till we land? What time zone am I in? Ok, so if I got on the plane at x:00 and it's now x:00 and with a three hour time difference, that means that I have: FUCK I HAVE NO IDEA HOW MUCH LONGER I HAVE TO BE ON THIS FLYING DEATH TANK AND I HAVE TO SHIT!

So, the voyage begins. Seat into an upright position. Tray up. Fwack. OW. Tray up. Fwack. OW. What? Do I look like fucking MacGeyver? Hold on, let me get my duct tape and my swiss army knife and I'll fix that broken tray. OH WAIT I CAN'T because my swiss army knife was taken at the airport because CLEARLY my Irish ass looks like a terrorist. I digress…I still have to poop.

So, you crawl over the broken tray and say excuse me to the fat lady seated on your left and the push the drooling Chinese man off your right shoulder (Apparently during the math debacle, Mr. Choo decided I looked like a pillow).

And now the long walk through coach. The dregs of society fly coach. I am in coach. I am a dreg. Did they only let large, drooling, handicapped people on this plane with me? Is this a joke? Walk faster and DON'T SHART!

Okay made it to the sliding accordion door of doom. Occupied. No problem, I can wait. Yep, it's all good. I am not panicking and I am not sharting. Nope, I am just standing in the aisle like a lady. A sweaty lady with a pooping emergency. HURRY UP YOU BASTARD! Wait…I hear voices. I hear two voices. A woman and…and a tiny voice. Now look…I LOVE children. I WANT children (tick tock). But, really, lady…do you have to educate your child on what happens to the ca ca as it spins down the metal hole while the big plane is flying? NO YOU DON"T! There are good people of the world who have to poop….UNfat, NON-drooling, good people of the world. GET OUT OF THE BATHROOM!

FINALLY! OK, don't touch the door handle. Paper, where is the paper? Okay, door closed. Work the button fly, girl! Come on. Now…..HOVER. Hovering in heels is not easy. Why am I traveling in heels? Maybe I am handicapped.

OH SWEET JESUS! Life is good again.

*staring into the hole* "I wonder where the poop goes."

BANG BANG!

"Hey lady, there's people waitin out here!"

oh, right. Hmmm.