The Farter

I’m so sorry to do this but I have to take a minute to talk about the type of people who fart on airplanes.

Really, what you are you doing? Who do you think you are? Is this your airplane? Did I accidentally get on a private jet you own? Do you own this air vehicle and, once in a while, just to remain connected to the common man, come back and sit in the “economy luxury” back of the plane to fart? For fun? I want to understand you, I want to understand your motives but it mystifies me in much the same way your fart has misted the entire back of this airplane.

Why must you smell up where the flight attendants are resting? They work so hard! They have had to deal with you asking for two pillows, an extra set of headsets you cannot possibly need, and at least five glasses of water. Be kind to the flight attendants. They are some of the most patient, hard working women and gay men out there. 

Oh. But here you go again. I should've known it was coming. You sit straight up in your seat, deeply enthralled with Mark Wahlberg’s performance in “Deepwater Horizon.” I’m not wasting time watching “Deepwater Horizon” and I’m confident it's not a sit-at-the-front-of-your-seat-concentrating kind of movie. “Deepwater Horizon” is the type of movie I would put on while folding my laundry and making a seasonally appropriate French lentil soup. You’re not leaning forward to determine whether Wahlberg is classically trained. You are leaning forward to fart.

The farting is so interesting. Listen, I get it, some people have problems. Not me. My mother always told us constipation, asthma, seasonal allergies, and sleep-away camp were all things in our heads that we did not/would not/could not have. The power of positive thinking and strong tactical avoidance methods would carry us through with confidence.

But you. You might have a problem. No you definitely have a problem. But the main problem here is how damn rude you are. Do you know this air is recycled? So, even after a few minutes have passed, and the scrambled eggs with warm kimchi and expired milk smell has dissipated, it will come back again. That’s whats really getting me here. It’s not a one time, in public while waiting on a crowded 6 train platform fart. Those are sort of obnoxious but maybe you thought it would live inside your winter coat and then quickly float away without bothering too many people. This is not that. This is a recycled fart.

And you had the audacity (the hot air, if you will) to comment about me putting a light spritz of my perfume on my wrists? First of all sir, this is Chloe by Chloe. This is my signature scent. This has been my signature scent since leaving London 8 years ago, stuck in Terminal 5 with 60 pounds left to my name and a stinking, sneaking suspicion that my boyfriend in the states was cheating on me. This perfume sir, has seen me through good times and bad. People who haven’t seen me in a while immediately comment and say, “Oh there it is. You smell like Bligh.” That is a GOOD smell sense memory my friend. Do your friends come up to you and say, “Oh there’s that good old gym socks and curdled greek yogurt with cat vomit Ralph smell.” No. They do not say that, because you are a farter. You are a small shared space farter. You smell like farts and a blatant disregard for decency.

Ralph. Yes, I’ve given you a name and yes you have to just get up and use the bathroom. This is too much for us. It’s not fair. It’s borderline disrespectful. I don’t quite know what you are going through…down there..because I don’t have those sort of problems because I am a lady and am basically up for sainthood and the Nobel Peace Prize and a chance at the Showcase Showdown. But you are quite obviously plagued with the curse of the fart and very poor discerning skills in regards to airplane movie selection.

I almost feel for you. But since Russia is so deliciously trendy right now, I have to Communist-up here and look out for the good of the common collective whole. You are not special, you have not earned the right to fart at will, to gas us with your bodily functions. You are not better than us, we are all the same back here in third class. Stop acting like Jack Dawson, coming down to join our Irish jig party to impress your lady when you didn’t give a shit about us a few hours ago at your fancy first class dinner party sitting at the captain’s table. I will have none of it. A quick thought/word of advice from a “mind over matter” thinker: suck it up.

PS- I know you voted for Trump. I can smell it on you. Literally.