Poop on a Plane
Posted by cann0nba11 on June 26, 2008
I’m on a plane flying home from Philly after a successful business trip and not one but two celebratory Philly cheese steaks (one from Geno’s and one from Pat’s. Given the quantity of food I’ve consumed in relation to the amount of liquid I’ve had since then, the expected lower body activity has reached its peak. Sadly, I’m on a 737 and despite my pre-boarding efforts nature has been unwilling to take its course until now, about an hour into my three-hour flight. Waiting is not an option, at least not if I don’t want to suffer a perforated bowel. Waves of gas attacks have coursed through my body and by now the poor soul seated behind me is probably wondering what small animal died in the air circulating system. I have no choice but to face the dreaded airplane bathroom.
If you think about it, ‘bathroom’ is a silly name for the narrow space lodged between the soda storage shelf and the two flight attendant seats at the tail of the plane. There’s no option for a ‘bath’ and ‘room’ is hardly an appropriate term. The space I’m about to use isn’t much larger than the glove compartment in my truck.
I’m a guy that hasn’t missed many meals, so I know that it’s going to be cozy in there. But at least I have that great universal toilet smell to look forward to. I imagine there must be a Bill Gates-like person with a firm monopolistic grip on the mystery toilet liquid market for all moving vehicles. Bus, train or plane, they all smell the same.
I open the door to the ‘lavatory’ and sidestep my way in. Come to think of it, ‘lava’ makes sense since that’s what I expect to be releasing from my ass any moment now. I’m not sure which task is more difficult for me, sliding from the middle seat to the aisle, or backing my caboose into this stinky parking space. I make like Baryshnikov and perform a sort of ballet maneuver just to get the door to close, and then I find the state-of-the-art red/green sliding lock that both protects me from sudden embarrassment while shielding other passengers from a most certain shock and awe to more than one of their senses.
Wow, this is a big room! No wait… ah, you almost got me. Those two strategically placed mirrors do wonders for the place. I feel like I’m outdoors for crying out loud. < /sarcasm > And, thanks to their strategic placement I will get to find out what I look like while taking a crap with my shoulder blades nearly touching.
Now for the important sequencing of events. First, check for toilet paper. If there’s one thing I will teach my kids before I die: always check for toilet paper before dropping trow and baking brownies. There’s not much that is more humiliating than the swamp-ass stroll from stall to stall trying to find some paper relief. But I digress. Given the ample leg room around me I know that I have to pee first, then take care of number two. Like Senator Craig, I have a wide stance. There’s no way my thunder thighs will spread wide enough for hank and the twins to have room to let loose. So, standing for number one is in order.
Now that my bladder pressure feels better it’s time to pirouette and prepare for number two. As my shorts start to lower I quickly retreat into a standing position. Moisture sighting at 6:00 low! Is that my pee on the floor, or is that stranger pee? I’m a good shot and I don’t remember dribbling. Either way, I need to avoid this ankle puddle so I drop a few paper towels on the floor to protect my clothes. Crisis averted, Houston we are go for throttle up.
Now that more serious matters have begun I have a little time to peruse my lovely surroundings. No smoking, huh? Three no smoking signs in both English and Spanish. How convenient. Didn’t we eliminate smoking on planes about thirty years ago? How old is this plane anyway? And, just in case you missed one of the three no smoking signs there is another sign specifically forbidding the disposal of butts in the trash. I guess they figure if someone is going to ignore three signs they might as well save money and only post one follow-up sign.
Glancing toward the celing I see five strips of red tape placed strategically over various hatches and removable panels. This is to let the crew know if anyone has tampered with the bathroom. Fucking terrorists… their influence is so damned pervasive. I’m certain that the flight crew is regularly checking to see if the tape has been wrinkled.
Ding. Muffins are done. Time to clean up. Hmm… how am I going to do this? I don’t think a 7yr-old Chinese contortionist could reach around her body in this small space to clean up downstairs. What the hell is a fat-ass like me supposed to do? Time to stand up. Spin. Grab. Wipe. Repeat. Cramp. Try again. Spin. Ouch! Pirouette. Done. Almost.
Now, as a 40-something male the only thing growing faster than my stomach is my prostate. I get another chance to tinkle and this time I have a few targets. As a good citizen I do my best to hose down the area and ensure that flushing removes all debris for a nice clean start for the next guy. Now, where the heck is the flush button. Is that ‘flush’ or is it ‘call attendant?’ Then will it be a silent swirl of cleanliness or a powerful sucking sound that might take me down with my recycled dinner? Fortunately it’s the former, and in a particularly blue shade of blue that is certainly not natural.
On to cleanliness. Oops… good thing I saw that “don’t drink the water” sign. I was parched. But I wonder, if its not safe to drink, is it really safe to use on my hands? Screw it, there’s plenty of soap. Mmm… lavendar with a hint of bleach. I’ll be a hit when I get home tonight. Wow, now that’s water pressure. All clean, a few passes with this industrial stength cardboard and I’m nice and dry, if not bleeding. Another sign! No paper towels in the toilet. Given what I just deposited I don’t think a paper towel is going to cause a problem.
Now to my next battle… squeezing back into my middle seat.
Rest in peace George Carlin.