The Things a Man Will See in Coach

I hate flying. Not because I am afraid of crashing, no. As a matter of fact, I think dying on a crashed airplane will be featured in my upcoming Top Ten Ways to Go blog, along with “Heart Attack Brought on by Massive Orgasm” and “Jumping off Empire State Building While Guns N Roses’ Civil War Plays from World-Class Sound System.”

I hate flying because I always sit next to douchebags. On one flight I was in front of a travel-pillow-and-sleep-mask-owning douche who was pissed that his vacation in Thailand was cut short by protesters at the airport. First off, middle-aged single white men do not vacation in Thailand. They have sex with underage prostitutes and that is gross. You get no sympathy from me. Also, when you spend thirty minutes bitching out loud about how hard your life is, you do not get the privilege of complaining that the baby across the aisle is too loud and should not be allowed on a plane. Babies are innocent. You are a douche.

Then there was the flight where I walked in from the door and passed row after row of beautiful women. All I could see to the end of the plane were more beautiful women. Bitches in the front, bitches in the rear, and somehow I get planted in the middle of a Harley-Davidson convention. Beer guts barely contained by tucked-in t-shirts and High Sierra jeans. Those overly sporty Oakley shades made less popular by Dwight Schrute. And the signature boisterous laughter that comes only after a lifetime of pounding Jack Daniels and speaking candidly about your own shits.

I took notice of a husband and wife having a conversation from across the aisle. They had apparently intentionally booked seats not next to each other, but on opposite sides of the aisle. Why? For mutual unfettered access to the bathroom.

And it struck me… when your urinary priorities begin to outweigh your desire to be with your spouse, the relationship has lasted too long. And that is how these things are measured.