Thank You For Choosing Delta...

I had the pleasure of traveling right after Christmas, and as I expected, the flights were displays of diversity. And when I say this, I do not mean racial diversity, I mean sartorial diversity.

From the aging black man wearing blue jean shorts and a Guayabera shirt, in the colours of the Jamaican flag, no less (with the word "Jamaica " emblazoned across his ample midriff), to the identical-looking lesbian couple in their matching outfits (and fanny pouches), to the 12 year-old wiggers with their backwards-pointing baseball caps and blue jeans-with-waistband-around-the-knees look, to the slutty-looking blond with belly shirt and whale-tail, all walks of life were represented.

But, I digress.

I settled into my seat, ready for an uneventful flight. I turned on my iPod, ignoring flight attendant exhortations that "...all electronic devices must be in the off position." (What, by the way, the fuck is the "off position"?) I closed my eyes as the slender aluminum tube roared down the runway, gaining altitude, and shaking the bonds of earth. Dozing, peacefully, until...the bug bit me.

I rushed to the lavatory, a 4'x4' enclosure, with about 69" of headroom (convenient, since I am 70" tall), and quickly fastened the door. I was in a race against the coming...um...flood. I sat, and (literally) exploded. Relief came quickly, then the sickness returned, and I was forced to spend the next fifteen (embarrassing) minutes pondering my fate, my health, the world.

As I sat, clutching my legs, trying to keep my clothing from touching the lavatory floor, and to keep my knees from banging on the door, I looked around.

No air freshener (to the detriment of the other passengers), and if I light a match, I face arrest and explosion (from the concentration of gas). I open the vent, allowing fresh air to pour into the coffin-like enclosure.

The flight attendant call button. What the hell is that for? Who would push that button? There is, frankly, no occurrence that would necessitate pushing that button. Even if my arse were glued to the toilet by suction, I would not push that button, for fear of eternal scorn and ridicule.

Matt Lauer: "Later, on Today, a conversation with Ms. Dorothy Dean, a Delta flight attendant who actually answered the call of a passenger who pushed the call button in the lavatory...and the pictures that she took with her cell phone. Today, on Today."

The paper covers for the seat behind me. Somehow, I know that any disease that can survive on an airplane toilet seat can conquer a flimsy piece of paper without batting an eye.

Sanitary napkin disposal. Believe me, they are not sanitary. At least not when a passenger is finished with it.

Then, as the next wave passes over me, and I give a courtesy flush, I hear the gong, urging me back to my seat because of some turbulence. I wonder why there isn't a seat belt on the toilet. Instead, I wind some toilet paper around my legs in hopes that the thin paper will keep me from being bounced around.

As I feel the toilet paper, I now know where the remnants of 60 years of Communist Bloc toilet roll production has gone. Fortunately, there are two rolls of the coarse (but ridiculously thin) paper at my disposal.

And, as the plane descends toward the airport (and I into Hell), I thank the good Lord that no one knows my name, knows who I am.

Alone, and anonymous in my illness, I complete my task and return to my seat, thinking about the delightful fact that when next the urge strikes, I will be in the terminal.