On the Tarmac
Not having something better to do, I went to London this weekend
as a symbolic vacation insomuch as I have not had a vacation,
symbolic or otherwise, this year.
The trip began as always with
Continental announcing that the first hour would be spent standing
stock still on the tarmac. My discomfiture was heightened by the
actions of my seat-mate who, from time to time, would reach inside his pants
and scratch his privates. In the words of Theo Karpus, who once
witnessed a similar event, "Not just a light scratch in passing
but really yanking around as if to rout out some major vermin."
I decided that this didn't affect me too much after I made the
mental note not to shake his hand but then suddenly (and
apropos of nothing discernible) he bent over "like a book slamming
shut" and started producing
that unmistakable gushing sound of someone disgorging every
meal eaten that week. When he was quite finished, he turned
towards me with a face the color of bleached suet and we shared
one of those ambiguous looks that only humans can muster and
even then only in this exact situation.
Return home
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