Alpaca Man

I’m going to suggest that, in addition to setting maximum baggage dimensions for air travel, we should also set limits for the size of people’s asses. If the width of an ass is greater than the width of the aisle (minus a couple of inches for literal wiggle room), then the passenger must be made to waddle sideways down the aisle like a fat fucking crab.

I’m an aisle-seat kinda guy. I can stretch my legs, get up for a walk, and make a dash for my next flight when needed. The downside is that you get ass-barged by people—often flight attendants—who seem oblivious to the fact their rear end is quite a bit larger than their shoulders. The last four hours onboard have felt like a tryout for the local rugby team.

To make matters worse, the mouth-breathing sleepyhead next to me has the worst breath I’ve ever encountered. One should not have even been able to make such odorous observations. But this guy was something else. It’s as if he drank a gallon of spoiled milk and then had an alpaca shit in his mouth.

Three weeks ago, I had a humpback whale blow a thick mist of dead-fish breath into my face from three metres away—and that was a more pleasant experience by comparison. Ejector seats in planes should be mandatory. I’d pay a couple hundred bucks right now to jettison this turd-eater into the stratosphere.

As you may remember, I’m not one to watch movies on the back of a plane seat—but I was happy to be kept briefly entertained by an attractive lady a couple of seats in front of me who was doing her pre-landing “get ready with me” style makeup routine, using the selfie camera on her phone as a mirror. I got a front-row seat to her process; the different putties, creams and powders, her expert handling of eyeliner through turbulence, and I even made the occasional guest appearance in the background. As someone that has only worn make up when impersonating KISS, it was quite interesting, and it helped take my mind off the alpaca man.

Upon arrival at Montreal airport, we had to go through the usual amount of customs rigmarole, the last—and most unpredictable—part of which is U.S. immigration. These days you never know for sure how it will go. I handed my passport over, the guy saw “Dover, England” as my place of birth, and launched into a twelve-minute history lesson on WWII, Dunkirk, the Battle of the Bulge, Robin Hood, and his ancestor King George. This came complete with vigorous hand gestures and the removal of his glasses for word emphasis. Poor Tynan was watching from the sidelines, thinking I had gotten in shit with U.S. immigration—little did he know we were having a very special moment.

That’s probably the fourth time this summer I’ve had a WWII lecture from someone random, all because of the good ol’ White Cliffs of Dover.

Onward and upward—NYC bound. One more flight to go, more customs, car rental, and other shit to deal with before a walk around Times Square at 2am.