What I Did On My Vacation

[sailorm72003]

Welcome Back- I can hardly wait for the next thrilling installment!

Sailor

 

[Rumple Foreskin]

Hmmmm! Very nice dear. Umm... welcome back.

Must go uncross my eyes.

Pop,

One-eyed folks the world over are waiting to know how a guy wearing an eye patch (the anglo Moshe Dyan) can cross his eyes.

Rumple Foreskin

 

[pop_54]

Who said anything about them both being in my head Rump's old chap, never heard of the one eyed trouser snake?

 

[Rumple Foreskin]

Who said anything about them both being in my head Rump's old chap, never heard of the one eyed trouser snake?

Sure thing, Pop. You da man.

Question: Fortunately, I'm having trouble visualizing that. If you wrote a story about that situation, what category would Laurel decide is most appropriate?

Rumple Foreskin

 

[pop_54]

Sure thing, Pop. You da man.

Question: Fortunately, I'm having trouble visualizing that. If you wrote a story about that situation, what category would Laurel decide is most appropriate?

Rumple Foreskin

Incest probably old chap's

 

[MathGirl]

enough to make a strong man plotz.

Dear Rumple,
I'm sorry to have that effect, but please go outside if you must plotz.
MG

From: Guess who?

Subject: Gonna Dee Eff Dubbya

I'm afraid this little exercise in writing to rid myself of Auntie-speak is not going very well. It seems to be getting worse. The Auntie-speak, I mean, not the writing. Writing wise, things seem to be about the same except there's a lot more of it when writing like Louise talks. Oh, well. Enough about that. End of subject. Finito. There we were in that Delta Airlines MD 80, at about 32K feet, 500+ knots, with Tom Whotsname still at the controls. I don't actually know if it was Tom flying the plane or it was on autopilot. Probably autopilot. It may have been the copilot flying, for all I know. I don't think he was introduced over the PA system. If he was, I wasn't paying attention. Sorry. His name might have been Fred, Jack, Levi, Geraldo, Chuck, Mahmoud, Reuben, Jose, Amos, Vladimir, Tyrone, Pierre, Gary, Thor, Mario, Pat, Juanito, or even Big Vinnie. For the sake of convenience, though, let's say his name was Ernie. I once had a hamster named Ernie. He was a biter. I know that's probably not his name, the copilot not the hamster, it's even quite unlikely that his name is Ernie. The hamster was definitely Ernie, though, because I named him personally. I doubt that Ernie the copilot was a biter like my hamster Ernie. They probably wouldn't let him up there in the cockpit if he was in the habit of making dental assaults on people. Would have been kicked out of flight school after the first few bites. Where was I? Oh ... the name thing. After all, there aren't very many men out there named Ernie, but you can never tell, can you. Of course you can't. For the sake of completeness, though, I think I should give the copilot a name. After all, he was second in command of a MD 80 going 500+ knots at about 32k feet in an approximately southeasterly direction. I feel that someone who has that much responsibility should at least be given a name, and Ernie is as good as any. I know, I know, he could have been named Emil, Bill, Roscoe, Andrew, Jasper, or Phil, but it's Ernie, and I don't want to hear any more about it. I could even have called him Tom, but that would be too confusing. After all, two guys in the front driving that MD 80 (that's the one with an engine under each wing) both named Tom is pretty unlikely. I'm talking about the pilots here, not engines, although there were two of each. Hope I'm not confusing you. Oh, good. It's even more unlikely than the copilot being named Ernie, I'd say. Maybe not, though. I'd need to do a statistical analysis on that, and I don't have enough data or the inclination to do so. Well, it's Ernie, and that's all there is to it. I picked the name, and that's it. It's like what Julius Caesar said when he crossed the Rubicon River with his army to start the Roman civil war with Pompey: alia jacta est. That's the way they talked in the old days before TV. That means that the die is cast, the decision is made, there's no going back, and either like it or lump it, Moosebreath. I think you get the idea. Personally, I'm sick of the subject and that's it. End of subject. Finito. Well, anyway, Ernie and Tom (or the autopilot who shall remain nameless because I am not a believer in giving names to inanimate objects, no matter how cute and cuddly they are) were up there busily flying that MD 80 at 500+ knots and at about 32k feet while the passengers were back there reading, sleeping, feeling someone up, being grumpy, wishing they were somewhere else, being felt up, sneaking farts, having a good time, getting drunk, playing gin rummy, picking their noses, going to the bathroom, or any of the other myriad things people do who are stuck on an airplane in the middle of both the night and nowhere. I assume it was the middle of nowhere country down there, because most of the terrain on a southeasterly course from Sacramento qualifies. I didn't have a map, but I think there was a lot of Nevada, Utah, Colorado, maybe some New Mexico, and a whole lot of Texas on the way to DFW. As I remember, that's middle of nowhere country. My Dad always says that the end of the earth and the middle of nowhere converge at a point a little south of Manteca,CA, but I don't think that's the only place. They have a sugar beet processing plant and a cattle feed lot in Manteca and the combination of the two makes the whole place stink. Did you know that Manteca means lard in Spanish? Well, of course you did. It does. Nice name for a town, Lard CA. Not as bad as Los Banos, though. I mean, how would you like to live in a place called The Restrooms? Sorry I couldn't put a little tilde on the n in Banos, but I don't know how to do it. Not much, I think. I mean liking to live in a place named that. There's probably going to be an unidentified someone who is fluid in Spanish wanting to split hairs about that definition of Los Banos, but I really hope they keep it to themselves, Perdita. Now, where the heck ... Oh ...I started wishing that I'd chosen either Cosmo or Larry for the copilot's name. Instead of Ernie, that is. Too late to go back, though. The old alia had been thoroughly jactaed. Darn it! Since John can't sleep on airplanes, he got a book out of his briefcase and was reading. It was The Source by James Michener, written about thirty years ago. John says it's one of his favorite books, and he's read it five or six times. It's about what happened on a certain site in the middle east over the past several thousand years. As long as it's taking me to describe a flight of several hours, let's be grateful that I'm not trying to give you the particulars about things that happened over the span of several thousand years. I thought you would agree. You're like that. Reasonable. I've tried to read Michener, but he's sort of dull. It's probably an age thing. Mine, I mean. In contrast to his, that is. The excitement of the earrings was wearing off, and I was starting to feel sleepy. After all, it was about two Aye Emm in the dark time of the morning by then. It was probably an hour later on the ground, but I was in a MD 80 at about 32K feet and not on the ground, so my watch was correct enough for me. I believe I exhaustively discussed my viewpoint on the entire subject of watch setting and time zones earlier. Of course I did, and I'm sure you agree. That the discussion was comprehensive, I mean. Whether you agree with my conclusion is another matter entirely, and represents another item about which I do not wish to hear. Ummm... Oh... Doris brought me a little pillow and blanket, and I tried so sort of lean against the wall and sleep, but it wasn't very comfortable. I might have slept with John's arm around me, but it kept going to sleep on him, so he wouldn't let me sleep that way. His arm, I mean. But of course you knew that. By the way, the proper term for an arm, leg, hand, etc. going to sleep is orthostatic neuroanesthesia. You probably knew that anyway. I thrashed around for quite a while, trying to find a comfortable position to go to sleep. My skirt was up almost to my waist, but I didn't care, and the other people were more concerned with getting comfortable and asleep than looking up someone's dress. My dress was actually up so far someone could look down it just as easily as up it. Like I said, though, I was past caring about that. Exhibitionism, I mean. The cabin lights were down low, and John put on a headset to watch the movie they were starting. He sometimes reads and watches movies at the same time, but I can't do that. I didn't care anyway, because I was sleepy. I finally found one of the few advantages to being short. I got sideways on the seat, used John's lap for a pillow, bent my legs, and I had a spot just as comfy as my bed. Doris covered me with my blanket, and I was asleep in seconds. I had planned to see if John would let me play with him under the blanket, but I went to sleep before I got the chance. He probably wouldn't have, anyway. Let me, I mean. He doesn't go for that sort of thing in public. He sure likes it in private, though. I was awakened by the smell of food, and John said Doris had brought dinner for us. Filet mignon and baked spuds. I love steak, and I decided to get up and eat. I never did, though, because the next thing I remember is John stroking my cheek to wake me up. He said that we would be landing at DFW in twenty minutes, and I might want to get myself together. Dinner and the movie were long since over with, and I didn't even get a bowser bag of steak. Not even a bone, but the filleys don't have those anyway. I was SOL, steakwise. I had slept for over two hours. I suppose Doris would have brought me a steak, but I was more concerned with getting myself straightened up and awake. You know that just woke up feeling. Terry Pratchett uses the word manky, and I think it might be appropriate. Sounds right, doesn't it? Of course it does. When you ride up front, they give you a little zippered case with stuff like a razor, toothbrush, shave foam, toothpaste, hand lotion, sleep mask, Scope, and even little slippers for your feet. Well, of course they're for the feet, and I shouldn't even have written that. I mean, where else would a normal person put a slipper? Your ears? No way, Jose. Actually, they were more like sox. Anyway, they were for the feet, and I'd worn mine while I slept. They were one size fits all, and I wear a 2.5, so I probably could have gotten both my feet into one of the things. They supplied one for each foot, though, and I took advantage of the Delta largesse. The little zippered case is black and had a Delta Airlines logo on it. I suppose if we had flown United Airlines it would probably have had a United logo. They do that, you know. I took my purse and little zippered case and went to the restroom. I guess they give the same stuff in the little zippered case to both men and women. I mean, I had a razor and shave cream, but I wasn't about to shave my legs, underarms, or p... down there on a MD80 at 32000 feet. No way, Jose. I only had to wait a minute for a middle aged lady with a face like a basset hound to get finished. The poor lady sure could have used a face lift. They could have firmed her up and had enough skin left over to cover a medium sized cat. Bassets are like that. Dermatically over endowed. While I was waiting, I was hoping she wasn't leaving a huge nasty BM disaster area in there for me to smell. Once was enough for one trip. More than enough, and I'd already had one. BM experience, I mean. Well, it smelled okay in there, but I think the lady had been sneaking a smoke. I peed, got my panty hose straightened up, got my knit dress (it's a lovely ivory color) pulled down and straightened, brushed my teeth and hair (different brushes, of course), admired my new earrings for a while, used some Scope, and freshened my makeup. By the time I was done, the engines on that MD 80 were just idling, and I could feel us pointing downwards to lose altitude. You do that before landing, you know. Point down. Whether it's a MD80 or my little 152, you point it downwards. I don't see that even a nonpilot would have much trouble with that concept, but you never know. Of course you don't. When I got back to my seat, John was gone, and I assumed he was in the restroom, too. Not the same one I used, of course, because I knew he wasn't in there. I was, and I'm sure I'd have noticed if he'd been there. It's unlikely he would have been anywhere else, than a restroom, because there just aren't that many places to go on a MD 80. After my nap and freshening I was feeling really good, but I was kind of hungry and feeling sorry for myself that I'd missed dinner. I do not take missing meals with good humor. Especialy filet mignon, because that's one of my favorites. I prefer the flavor of a T bone or rib eye, but a filet mignon is nothing to sneeze at. Not to me anyway. I sure wish I'd get us landed at DFW, I'm getting hungry. I also have to pee, but I'm going to hold it until I finish this. Since it was technically morning, I fished my pack of birth control pills out of my purse and took one. Not that I had been doing anything to warrant contraceptive measures, mind you, but I had my hopes. I swallowed it with the cold dregs of John's coffee. Urggl I don't like coffee much, but it was better than swallowing it dry, but not by much. Where was I? Oh, I was somewhere over Texas, in a MD 80 at a steadily decreasing altitude. I don't know anything about Texas except that there's an awful lot of it, and we were about to be somewhere down in it. I think I know about as much about Texas as I care to know. Nothing. Well, I know that Willie Nelson is from Abbott, TX and I've heard that the state to produces more than its fair per capita share of assholes, but that's about it. Not that Willie is an asshole; I like him. In fact, I don't even know any Texans, but you do hear stories, don't you? Of course you do. John got back about the time the seat belt sign lit up. He kissed me and tasted like toothpaste. I'm sure I tasted the same way to him. That's okay, because there are lots of things worse to taste like than toothpaste. I mean a whole lot of things and a whole lot worse. If you think about that, I'm sure you will agree. Don't think about it too much, though, or it might put you off your feed. I could list things, but it would take too long, and I have to pee. Well, Tom and/or Ernie made a nice landing, and the MD 80 taxied for what seemed like forever before we got to the terminal. I think I read that DFW is the world's biggest airport, acreage wise, and we must have landed several miles from the terminal. Since there's so much room in Texas, I suppose they could use all the land they wanted for the airport. It isn't as if the land in Texas is much good for anything else. I was thinking I might have to get up to pee again when we finally got to the place where we stopped. Well, I have to close for now. I think I've gone through needing to pee and out the other side. Have you ever had a dream about peeing and woken up finding that you really have to go? I have. I guess there are worse things to dream about and wake up finding you have to do. I could think of several. I'd write them down, but I've really, really gotta go. End of subject. Finito. This is sure going to take a long time. I mean I've written so much, and I'm only about five hours into a ten day trip. What's more, nothing much has happened yet. How long is this thing going to take when I get to the parts where there are lots of things to tell you about? Oh, well. Sigh.

 

[MathGirl]

The next thrilling episode, even if nobody reads it:

Let's see, where was I? I sure don't want to leave anything out, but this Louise speak gets tedious. I'm sure glad I don't have to read it. I'll bet you wish you didn't have to, either. You probably will, though, just on the off chance there may be a pearl of wisdom or a pithy comment buried in the middle of all this drivel. I'm not going to tell you, though, because someone has to read this stuff. Otherwise, what the heck is the use of writing it? Several readers have asked me to skip the narrative parts and get on with the sex. Well, I hate to disappoint, but there's not going to be any of that in here. There was a considerable amount of that stuff on the trip from Sacramento to San Francisco, but there will be no descriptions or discussions thereof. If you're looking for a story about fellatio, sodomy, jobs (hand, blow, rim, hum, fleece, etc.), fucking, the Filthy Sanchez, the deed, cornholing, taking the skin boat to tuna town, whipping the willie, incest, sexuality (homo, hetero, etc.), animalism, boning, sheep shanking, intercourse, the old coal chute (taking or giving it up same), water sports (except healthy swimming), hummers, around the world, tupenny knee tremblers, style (doggie, missionary, horsie, etc.), French, Greek, Turkish, traveling the dirt road, gettin' it on, having it off, and all that other stuff, you had better go somewhere else. This is intended to be siutable reading for the whole family. Including Granma who hides the old man's Viagra. I also want to make one thing clear: There will be ABSOLUTELY no mention whatever of a Cleveland Steamer. You CS fans can cajole, threaten, entreat, and beg all you want, but I will, under no circumstances, touch upon the subject of the Cleveland Steamer. Good luck, Chuck. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito. Now where the heck ... Oh, I remember ... When we got to DFW and off the plane, the place was like a ghost town. Well, what do you expect at six aye emm on Sunday morning? Not much, I expect. If you did, I'll gaurantee you would have been sadly disappointed. I was hungry, but I'd rather starve than eat vending machine food. I let John force me to eat two bags of chips (Doritos Sour Cream and BBQ Ruffles), a Baby Ruth, two Heath bars, and a Coke, though. Oh, then I had two packages of those awful cheese and cracker things. It took another Coke to wash them down. They're dry, you know. Those awful cheese and cracker things, I mean. Well, of course you knew that. You've been paying attention. Breakfast of champions. We didn't change planes, just crew. Probably one of those union things. We all know about them, don't we? Well, of course we do, but we just don't discuss it in polite company. Then again, maybe they thought the plane was broke but decided to use it anyway. I tried not to think about that. I was sorry I never got to meet Tom and Ernie. I know, I know, his name probably wasn't Ernie and could have been Enrique, George, Waylon, Farley, Wiley, Bruce, Haysoos, or Sam, but we've been through all that. Let's leave that behind us and go on to better things. No, a Cleveland Steamer is not a better thing, so please just drop the subject. Thank you. I decided to pay attention to the names of the crew on the next leg of the trip so I could be specific when I told you about it. I don't know why we didn't change planes and why we had an hour layover at DFW, and there wasn't anyone around to ask for the vouchsafement of such information. Probably to let people on and off the plane, but why anyone would want to do either at DFW at six aye emm on Sunday morning escapes me. I was sorry we wouldn't have Doris on our way to Miami. She was nice, even though she seemed to want to poke those big boobies of hers in John's face at every opportunity. John said he wouldn't mind putting his face between them and going bububububbabababrrr, and I acted offended. I wasn't really, because I knew he didn't mean it. Actually, I knew he did mean it, but he wouldn't ever do it. At least not when I was around. He can't do that bububabbabbarrr thing with mine, because they're not big enough. I don't intend to get them made bigger just so he can put his face between them and go bububabbabbarrr, either. No way, Jose. I refuse to go through the surgery and carry the damn things around for the rest of my life just so he can go bububabbabbarr between them. Fat chance, Moosebreath. Fortunately, John would never want me to have that done anyway. He thinks it's barbaric. I'm sure glad of that, because I'm sure I'd do it if he asked. Mine are just a B cup if I fudge a little, and that's about right for me. I think someone my size would look pretty ridiculous with D cup boobies. I'm sort of scrawny, and none of my measurements makes thirty inches, so a big set of bazongas like Auntie's would look pretty silly. I may as well be satisfied, because they're never going to get any bigger unless I get fat, and I don't intend to do that. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito. We wandered around that big, empty terminal for a while, window shopping at stores that weren't even open. Wahoo. I didn't see anything I would have wanted, though. Stores in TX seem to lean towards huge belt buckles, big hats, and pointy toed boots with high heels. I don't wear stuff like that, because they're silly. Neither does John, and I'm glad. He's sixteen inches taller than I am, anyway, and boots with high heels would just make it worse. Well, maybe if I wore the boots and he went barefoot, it would make things more even, altitude wise. That isn't going to happen, though, because I doubt that they make those stupid boots in size 2.5, and I wouldn't be caught dead wearing them even if they did. Huh. Fat chance, Moosebreath. Maybe that's why we spend a lot of time in a prone position when we're together. We're the same height then. Of course, boots with high heels wouldn't make any difference in bed, but I don't think he'd want to do that. I sure wouldn't like it much. Spurs would be downright dangerous, especially in certain positions I can think of and I'm sure you can, too. Of course you can. Someone could lose an ear that way. They had a special VIP area for first class passengers (Delta Club, or some such), and at least John could get a cup of coffee there. I didn't have any, because I don't like the stuff, but I had some OJ. It wasn't very cold, but I didn't complain. I'm like that. Stoic. The guy behind the counter looked like he wanted to be home in bed, and I really couldn't blame him. Even if it was later if you used local time. I don't. Use that central time stuff, I mean. I've no use for it, thank you. It was about five Aye Emm by my watch, brain, and body, and I think it was seven Aye Emm local time, and I sort of mentally compromised at six. I kept my own time, though. I don't do Central Standard Time. I'm hardly ever there, I never stay long enough to use it, so I don't see any reason to recognize it. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito. That was my first time in Texas, and I must admit to being somewhat disappointed. Oh, I know it was only like seven AM local time on a Sunday, but I had been expecting something more ... Texan. I had envisioned dozens of good ol' boys who looked like Chill Wills or Slim Pickens with pot bellies achowin' down on they's breffust, and there wasn't even a restaurant open. Where were the guys noisily scarfing grits, hush puppies, sow belly, Tex-Mex, and fat back while yelling wahoo, waving their big hats at each other and occasionally firing a six shooter into the ceiling? Nowhere that I could see. Oh, well. There was a nice big restroom at the Delta Club, or whatever it's called. I could find out about that, the name of the thing, but I probably won't bother even if you ask, so you may as well try to live with the uncertainty. Life is like that, you know, so please try to find some inner peace even not knowing about that club thing. Umm.. Oh... The restroom. Much nicer than the ones on the MD 80. Well, it would be, because there's lots more space in a ground facility than there is on a MD 80. Or even a 747, if you think about it. I had the restroom all to myself, and it smelled like it had just been cleaned, nice and fresh. I hardly ever use one or think about them at home, but I found myself becoming quite restroom-aware on that trip. Well, by the time I left that restroom, I felt greatly relieved and the restroom no longer smelled so fresh. I know it's not ladylike, but I was rather proud of what I'd done in there. Like my cat leaving his little marks around his territory. I sure left my ... mark on that restroom. Just as well I didn't have a Sharpie or a Magic Marker. I would have probably written something on the wall to commemorate my first restroom visit in the great state of Texas. I was sort of sorry for the lady who went in there just as I was leaving, but I'd gone through it earlier, so it was someone else's turn to breathe atmosphere you could hang a coat on. I'm very regular, you know. Well, of course you know, because I just told you. Sure I did. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito. Since there was nothing at all going on in the terminal, we wandered back to the airplane. I was afraid the odor may have clung to my clothing, but John didn't say anything. If it had accompanied me, he would have said something. You have my word on that. On the way, I dragged him behind a big pillar, and I got a thorough kissing and frisking. I really liked that, but it took a while to get my dress straightened out afterwards. Knits are like that, you know. It was the same MD 80, the one with the engine under each wing. I think they'd had a cleaning crew in there while we were gone, because the place smelled of air freshener and the floors and seats had been vacuumed. Planes tend to get pretty messy, you know. No trash cans, so you just use the floor. There was a new attendant to meet us and check our boarding passes when we got back onto the MD 80. Her name was Roxanne. It almost surely still is, because that was only about two weeks ago, and it's unlikely she would have died or had her name legally changed in that time. Even if she had died her name would still be Roxanne, I guess. That's sort of a metaphysical question, though, and I'd rather not go into it. I tend towards the scientific rather than the philosophical, you know. Well, of course you knew that. If Roxanne had gotten married in those two weeks, though, her name would still be Roxanne. Just her last name would be changed. Since I never knew her last name, I don't think it would have made any difference even if she had gotten married. Certainly not to this rather abridged discussion. She would still be just Roxanne to me. I was sure glad I wasn't named Roxanne. I think that would be a tough name to carry around all your life, but it didn't seem to bother her. Of course, she was about forty years old, and she would have been used to it by then. People are like that, you know. They just get used to things they can't do anything about, and I think that'a healthy for the most part. Roxanne was very pretty. Beautiful, actually. She had some little lines and crow's feet on her face, though, and you knew she had some years on her. She was still beautiful, though. She didn't have big boobies, and I was glad of that. I wouldn't have to think about John putting his face between them and going bubububbabarrr. Not that he would. He's not like that. Well, actually he is like that, but I'd rather not go into it. Enough about that. End of subject. Finito. Well, we got back to our seats, and I took the one next to the window again. There wasn't much to see out the window, because it was still mostly darkish outside, although there were scattered areas of light because day would be coming up in the east pretty soon. There were some airport lights and an occasional guy wearing coveralls and those big ear muffs wandering around, though. Still, that's a lot more to see than when the MD 80 is at 32K feet and going 500+ mph in the dark. Well, I think that's about enough for now. I hope that the next letter will at least get us off the ground from DFW. The next leg would be to Miami, and that's mainly east from DFW with a fair amount of south thrown in there, too. I know you'll want to hear all about that flight, but first there are a few more things that happened on the ground at DFW. Not much, really, but it deserves a fair amount of description, and I know you'll be interested in it. Bye for now, I'm going shopping for shoes. I know I won't find anything, but it's only right that I make the effort. Besides, I like going places and showing off my new earrings. They haven't turned green or chipped yet, so I guess they're the real thing. Adios (that's Spanish, you know). Well, of course you do.

 

[Guest]

I'm still reading, and avec plaisir (that's French).

Perdita

 

[Rumple Foreskin]

MG & P,

I'll still reading, too. For as Paul Revere and the Raiders so aptly stated, "Kicks just keep getting harder to find." Besides, "this chere is funner'n shit." (that's redneck)

RF

 

[sailorm72003]

MG, P & RF-

Also, still reading..

LOL (That's cyber)

 

[Wills]

MG
There's a spray you can get for unsticking those 'b' and 'u' keys.

Seriously, this is like a stream of unconcious thought, I am in admiration especially after toying with the idea of trying to write a 'male thought stream' - you know, the one that thinks about sex 99.9% of the time.

Bravo (that's Italian (or Spanish)) (((not French)))

W

 

[Guest]

 

[Guest]

E BravA per matematica regaza.

Muy bueno, Cal; como para un soprano fino.

Perdita

 

[MathGirl]

I must admit that I'm intimated by people who are fluid in ferrin tongues.
MG

Subject: More DFW. Maybe even takeoff but unlikely

Ummm ....... where was I? Oh, DFW. Did I mention that DFW stands for Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport? I did? Oh, okay, just forget I mentioned it again. Just as an informational aside, they always give airports a three letter name. I expect that you already knew that, though. After a while, Roxanne got on the PA system and told us all that stuff about oxygen masks, crashing, etc. It was as exciting as usual, but she sang part of it, so that made it more fun. Not really fun, mind you, but better than if she just recited it. She didn't mention about raspberry jam with seeds in, though. Probably best. Since we would be going over water, she told us about the seat cushions being floatation devices. Good luck, Chuck. She didn't mention that no jetliner has ever successfully ditched in the ocean. Not a single person has ever lived through one of those, and I had no desire to make a heroic effort to become the first. I think I'm right about that. Unsuccessful ditching, I mean. Even if I'm not, I'll bet I'm close. I'm like that, you know. Closely approximate when not absolutaly correct. I just wanted to be taken to Miami; no adventures on the way, thank you very much. My early morning restroom experiences had been more than enough excitement for one trip. None of the attendants looked like they wanted to be there, and I sure didn't blame them. I really didn't want to be there, either. I wanted to be where we were going. The inside of a MD 80 on the ground at DFW early in the morning is something that's hard to work up much enthusiasm for. Made it easier to understand why people take drugs. In the dullest of situations, drugs would make it possible to generate a little excitement in your own head. Maybe I should try that sometime. One of my worst fears was unfounded, though. Even though it was Sunday morning, we were not subjected to a sermonic harangue by some coon ass East Texas preacher of the hellfire and damnation persuation like Robert Duval in that movie. Being in Texas, I was afraid something like that might happen. You hear stories. Actually, my Texas experience was disappointedly bland and generic. Boring, really. Oh, sure, it all took place inside a huge airport at the break of dawn on Sunday, but I expected something more Texan. I believe I mentioned earlier about the lack of big hats ascarfin' breffust and ayellin' wahoo. I didn't see a single person wearing a big hat, and nobody even talked funny. In fact the locals didn't talk much at all, since they all wished they were home in bed. I didn't meet anyone called Tex or The Kid, and nobody called anyone else a galoot, Mescan, owlhoot, or Fuggin Greaser the way they do in the movies. Oh, well, maybe I just caught them at a bad time. Vacation, maybe. Possibly I read too much Zane Gray and Looie Lamoureauiex when I was a kid. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito. Let's see ... Back to the MD 80 ... I was with John, though, so I was happy. It's just that I would have been happier being with him somewhere else. Like in a nice big bed. Even a little bed. A cot? Actually, I'd have settled for a sleeping bag. That MD 80 was getting sort of tiresome by that time, and we were only about half way to Miami. On the ground, too. Immobile. I wish they had compartments with bunk beds like they did on the trains in the old black and white days. That would have been fun! Well, we finally started moving. Backwards, but sometimes you have to do that in order to eventually go forwards, and I think this was that sort of situation. We got pushed backwards by one of those little towmotor things. I can push and pull my little 152 around by hand, but a MD80 is somewhat larger. They must be pretty powerful to shove around a MD 80. The towmotor thingies, I mean. Did I mention that those MD 80s have an engine under each wing? I must have. Well, they do. That's a characteristic of that model aircraft. Two engines, total. No spares, backups, or auxilaries. I guess Delta told the pilot You got just two engines here, bub, so do the best you can and don't bend anything. We taxied for about half an hour before the driver got us lined up on the runway and punched it. Wheeeee! It was light enough by then for me to see stuff whizzing by the window at an increasingly high rate of speed. I think those things get up to about 180 knots before they rotate. Rotate means pulling back on the yoke and making the thing fly. That's another tidbit of pilot-speak I'm throwing in at no extra charge. My Cessna 152 starts wanting to fly at about 55. Then the drag race was over, and the wheels came up with a thump that sounds like something fell off the plane. It didn't, though. There was no air traffic at that time, so the pilot didn't mess around making a bunch of turns or practicing her aerobatic maneuvers; just turned onto a heading and stayed there until we got to Miami. When we got to cruising altitude of 32K feet, the pilot came on the PA system and told us we would be cruising at 32K feet at 500+ mph. Ho hum. Exciting news. We seemed to be in a rut, if there were ruts at an altitude of about six miles. Her name was Betty Reed. The pilot, I mean. It's quite likely that it still is. Her last name may have been spelled Reid, Reede, Wreade, or Reade, of course, but her first name was definitely Betty. Probably short for Elizabeth. I'm glad I wasn't named Elizabeth. It's too long and awkward, and the nicknames mostly bite the big one. Bess, Betty, Liz, Butch, etc. No thanks. She said the first officer's name was Rgmfshg Bennett. I know, I know, but the first name was garbled. No, I don't mean he was named Garbled Bennett. Betty R's pronunciation of the name was garbled. Anyway, he was Mr Bennett, and he was the assistant driver. His name might have been Dave, Earl, Maxmillian, Roy, Enos, Carl, or Gregory for all I knew. I didn't like thinking of him as Mr Bennett, though. I tried Giuseppi, Armand, Harley, Edgar, Fritz, Roger, Mordecai, Emmett, and Winslow, but none of those sounded right. Rather than agonize over it, I asked Roxanne. She said his name was Dick. Dick Bennett, Assistant to Betty Reed. Okay, I had the aircrew straightened out. I just hoped Dick and Betty were paying attention to business and not up there playing grab ass or something. I felt better knowing that it was Dick sitting in the right seat, not having to worry that his name might be Willie, J.R., Mike, Johnny, Jim, Obediah, Slim, Jack, Rutherford, Clem, Robert, Buck, Chip, Joe-Bob, Ralph, Dwight, Rodney, Steve, Warren, Felix, Hernando, Randy, or Woodrow. Of course someone named Woodrow would probably be called Woody. I've often wondered if Woodrow Wilson was known as Woody. I know he was the only President with a PhD and was president of one of those Ivory League universities, but it's the pictures of him I've seen that lead me to believe he was not commonly called Woody. That face just doesn't look like a Woody. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito. Okay, there we were in that MD 80, at 32K feet, going 500+ mph in sort of an east southeast direction. I know that all sounds repetitive, but I can't help it. I was sort of tired of being at 32K feet, and I'm sure you're sick of hearing about it, but Betty and Dick never asked me how I felt about it. They just drove in a straight line. A few aerobatic maneuvers would have livened up the ride, but I'm not sure a MD 80 is designed for inversions, loops, Immlemanns, falling leafs, vertical dives, outside loops, or eight point rolls. Probably not, and, even though I would have enjoyed it, most of the passengers would have been both pissed and sick. The FAA and Delta would probably have something to say about it after we landed, too. Dick and Betty would have probably ended up doing lawn and yard maintenance. Roxanne asked if I wanted eggs Benedict or pancakes with sausage and eggs for breakfast. Since I had missed out on the filet mignon, I was hungry (the junk vending machine stuff at DFW didn't count because it was forced on me), and I asked if I could have both. She looked at my size and suggested that both would be a lot of food. John assured her that I would eat it all, and I could feel myself blush. I blush easily, and I wish I didn't. Blushing serves no purpose other than to make the blusher look silly and red. John said he'd had dinner on the other flight, and didn't want any breakfast. I asked him to order eggs Benedict so I could have them. Just in case the preceeding hints went over your head, I love eggs Benedict. I think it's the hollanderaisse sauce. Or is it Green Valley Creamy Ranch? Whatever. He and Roxanne both rolled their eyes, but he ordered them for me. Eggs Benedict, that is. Roxanne said we had time for a drink before breakfast, so John got a Grand Marnier (he loves that stuff and calls it Grand Manure) and coffee, and I had a vodka with tomato juice. John said that seven Aye Emm was a perfectly civilized time to start getting roaring drunk. I only poured half the little bottle of vodka into the TJ, because I don't have much tolerance to alcohol. John, on the other hand, can drink a lot without getting drunk. Something about a wooden leg, I think. Just affectionate. I think I mentioned it before, but he's like that. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito. Well, for the sake of brevity, let's just say that for the next hour Roxanne brought the grub, carried away the empties. I held up my end of the bargain by eating everything she brought. She never had to take away a single morsel of my breakfasts and John's. Just the empties. She seemed impressed by my eating, but John wasn't. He had seen me in action before and, if anything, was surprised at my relatively moderate appetite. By the time it was over, I was pretty full. I finished it off with another TJ and the rest of my vodka. John said I was getting in shape for the cruise, because there would be a lot of eating then. I was really looking forward to that. They started a movie, but I really didn't feel like watching a movie at seven Aye Emm. Of course that was my time, and I didn't know what time it was for those people on the ground. Then I thought I vaguely remembered moving my watch forward, or had I dreamt that? I lay there sort of horistically disoriented, but I was too comfy and sleepy to require a reconciliation of the enigma. Actually I couldn't even tell if we were over land or water. I think the Gulf of Mexico is on the way from Dallas to Miami, but we were flying over a heavy overcast and it was impossible to see through it. Clouds are like that, you know. Opaque to downright impenetrable. Whatever was about six miles below us was probably getting rained on or in. If it was ocean, though, it wouldn't make much difference. After all, you can only get so wet. If you will think about that, you'll conclude that I'm right. Of course you will. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito. I sat up and dug into my little carry on bag and gave John a Christmas gift I'd bought for him. The expensive one. It was a sterling silver cigar case with engraving on that said it was from me to him and that I loved him. It still says that, and I still do. He smokes two or three cigars a day, the short, smelly kind that he calls guinea stinkers. Toscanellis. They look like gnarled black wood and smell like burning garbage. He never smokes inside. Except for his office at his house. He has an exhaust fan like they use in bathrooms in there. The case was just the right size for the guinea stinkers, because I took one with me when I shopped for the case. He really liked it and kissed me. I liked that, and I moved his hand to my boob the right one) while he was doing it. I wish I hadn't been wearing a bra, but I would have showed high beams through that knit dress. Did I mention that it was an ivory color? Well, it was. Still is, and I've got to get it back from the cleaners tomorrow. John said that he wished I'd waited to give him the case, because it made him want a cigar. He not only couldn't smoke on the MD 80, but he didn't even have any stinkers with him to put in the case. After all that eating, I needed a toothbrushing, so I took my little zippered case with the ear plugs, sleep mask, and all to the restroon. I'm dentically fastidious, you know. Well, of course you do. I just told you. Wouldn't you know it, I walked right into another blast area. This was even worse than the first and almost as bad as the one I left in DFW. I took one whiff, turned around, and waited in line for the other rest room. I guess I wasn't the first one to run into that miasma. No wonder one restroom was empty and the other had a short line waiting. Phew! A lady right behind me did the same thing. I should have warned her, but I didn't think it would be seemly to yell Hay, you, don't go in there because it smells like shit, big time. Anyway, she cracked that door, got a stunned look on her face, and staggered back to her seat. I think she was unprepared for that sensory assault and was shaken by the experience. I think that on planes they should reserve one restroom for BMs, and the others for more civilized activities. Well, almost anything is more civilized than a BM. One door would have a BMs Only sign, and the other one would have a No BMs In Here - This Means You sign. I think that would save a lot of heartbreak on long morning flights. Of course the BM restrooms would have super efficient exhaust systems and automatic stench suppression capability in an ideal situation. I know what would happen, though. People would be hesitant to be seen going into the BMs Only restroom, because they're embarrassed about having several dozen people know they're going to take a dump. At least the women would be. Hesitant, that is. I don't think most men care, because they're basically animals anyway. If they're like my Dad, they pride themselves on the stench they produce. I think that's gross. Where was I? Oh ... That hesitancy would mean that most people would want to use the No BMs Here - This Means You restroom, and there would be a long line. Not only that, people would totally disregard the law and have BMs anyway, and the poor people behind the offender in line would walk into the ripe .... well, you know. Possibly a Federal Inflight BM Referee might be useful in that situation. I doubt the line of job applicants would be very long, but you can never tell. Of course you can't. I've noticed that they seldom serve beans or broccoli on airplanes. They do serve eggs, though, and the sulfur in the yolks gets converted to some nasty compounds in its transit through the innards. Think what it would be like with a MD 80 full of people who had huevos rancheros for lunch. Of course there would need to be a BM detection system in the No BMs Here - This Means You restroom. If someone broke the rules, a siren would go off and a red neon BM light would flash on and off above the door when they came out. I'll bet that would discourage the scofflaws. Another solution that comes to mind would be to eliminate first class, business class, and coach. Instead, have seating sections and restrooms designated Passengers Who Have Had Their Morning BMs and Passengers Who Are Likely To Have A BM On This Flight. Of course nobody would want to admit being a PWALTHABMOTF, except for people like Dad, and nobody would want to sit in that section. Maybe they could offer reduced fares to induce people to do the right thing. Another possible solution would be to have everyone line up in the airport for an enema and complete the job under observation before issuing boarding passes. This would probably cause untenable delays, though. Especially on the jumbo jets where 400+ people would need to be serviced. Okay, I don't really have a sure fire solution to the problem. I do think it needs to be addressed, though. I'll bet if a few senior Federal Aeronautics Administration officials walked into what I did on that flight, there would be some action taken. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito. I guess I sort of got off onto a tangent, but I thought you would want to know about these things and my thoughts thereon. I'd better close now. For some reason I have to go to the bathroom.
Bye for now, gotta run.

 

[MathGirl]

Still on that MD80:

On the subject of inflight BMs, I should mention that the preflight enema idea was John's. We had a discussion on the matter when I returned from the restroom, and that was his suggestion. I'm trained to properly reference all ideas which aren't originally my own, but this whole thing is hard enough without footnotes and bibliography. When we reboarded the plane in DFW, a new passenger had been uploaded, and he was sitting by himself just across the aisle from John. He was a chubby guy about fifty with a red face and wearing a suit. Why someone would want to wear a suit, coat and all, on an airplane early in the morning on the way to Miami is beyond my comprehension. That is not the only concept beyond my understanding, of course. Just as an example, the phenomenon of alcohol shrinkage is another, but I don't think I want to go into that here. Suffice it to say that if a liter of absolute (100%) alcohol is added to a liter of pure water, the resultant 50% (100 proof) mixture occupies less than two liters. That's alcohol shrinkage, and I needn't mention how important the concept is in our daily lives. Well, it is. Now, where was I? Oh... We hadn't even started moving yet, and the guy across the aisle was already telling an attendant (not Roxanne, someone else, the name of whom had not been vouchsafed to me) how important he was and how much money he had. I assumed he was a Texan, because he made sure he spoke loud enough so that everyone within earshot could hear. That was kind of a silly thing to say; of course those within earshot could hear. Otherwise they would not be within earshot. Sorry. The attendant tried to ignore him, but the other passengers already had their designated attendant, and she was sort of stuck with him. She went to hide out in the little kitchen, and he started to inform Roxanne of his importance and wealth, but she ignored him and pretended that John and I urgently needed her undivided attention. The guy had a nice view of her backside, though. John muttered that the guy should be on the cover of Asshole magazine and asked Roxanne if she liked important, wealthy men. She said sure, but the guy across the aisle was about as attractive as a stool sample. I thought of him as Mr Stool Sample after that. Roxanne said there was a way to deal with passengers like him. She and the anonymous attendant kept forcing the Jack Daniel's Black Label on the guy. He tried to grab Ms Anonymous' butt, but he was cooperative with the drinking. They had him unconscious and drooling on the lapel of his suit jacket in less than an hour. He woke up once, was force fed some more whiskey, and went back to sleep until Miami. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito. On the way to Miami from Dallas, an older couple (older to me, at least, in their forties but apparently still frisky) was getting quite affectionate back in the corner of the front cabin. Probably married to other people, Roxanne thought. Roxanne wasn't taking care of them, but she did comment on it. Actually, they looked as if they neither needed or would welcome any third party taking care of. She said it looked like they were trying for the mile high club, and they discouraged that sort of thing on Delta. At least in first class. I don't think they much care what the people in coach do as long as they don't damage the MD 80. Roxanne said the attendant who was taking care of the affectionate couple should look in the Delta Airlines Policy and Procedures Manual for Flight Attendants to determine the peoper procedure to follow. John said he thought it was getting to be about time to get a bucket of water. He says things like that, you know. Well, I guess you don't know, but you will by the time you finish reading about my trip. Assuming, of course, that I ever finish writing about it. My trip, that is. It's been several days now, and I'm only about seven hours into the first day of a long trip. I'm starting to have my doubts. I hate to be a whiner, but the outlook is not rosy. Downright bleak, in fact. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito. I wrote this little snippet while sitting by the pool on the boat. Possibly I should not have mentioned that yet, but you know about the Panama Canal, so you probably guessed that some form of seagoing transportation was going to be required sooner or later. I know I haven't even mentioned the boat before now, but I'm going to exercise the writer's prerogative to wax anachronistic. Using a laptop that ended up with coconut scented suntan lotion all over it. On the boat, I mean. By the pool. They have those, you know. Laptops you can borrow. Supply your own floppy disks, which are available for purchase at an astronomical price at the shops downstairs on the ship. They also have the coconut suntan lotion, but you have to pay for it or bring your own. Loaning suntan lotion is a very chancy proposition, you know. It so seldom gets returned. Please note: It is ALWAYS better to bring stuff you need aboard ship with you. They charge about triple the usual price in the onboard shops. That's another gratis piece of advice for which you may be extremely grateful should you ever want to take a boat trip. Well, I'm sort of jumping the gun here, because we haven't even gotten to Miami yet, let along San Juan, PR where we found our boat. Sorry. Please disregard any references to ships, boats, rafts, flotsam, cruisers, scows, barges, etc. This whole thing is difficult enough without me getting sidetracked, and you reading it the way you are just makes it worse. I was under the influence of a pina colada at the time. When I wrote this; on the boat; at the pool. I could really get to like pinas coladas. They're mainly pineapple juice and rum. I think there's also some coconut in there. Not from the suntan lotion, though. I don't like those things much by themselves, but they make a great combination. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito. I'm obviously editing this at a later time, not under the influence of a PC. Actually there's hardly anything left of what I originally wrote, and that is a blessing. You would not have wanted to read it in the original form. No way, Jose. I hope I don't need to tell you what PC means. Of course not. You're quick on the uptake. If you guessed politically corrrect of personal computer, though, you're not nearly as mentally facile as I thought, and perhaps it would be best if you didn't read any further. It may get more diffiicult for you. I know it's certainly getting that way for me. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito. In closing, I want to assure you that we are finished with the subject of inflight BMs and the horrible conequences thereof. I know it is not the most tasteful of subjects, but it is something which needs to be addressed. Those who stick their heads in the sand like a bustard and pretend such matters do not exist are denying a fact of life, unpleasant as it might be. They are living in a fool's paradise and are completely unprepared to deal with harsh reality should such an eventuality arise, and it does. Usually about once a day, frequently in the morning. Forewarned is forearmed, and you may well be faced with such a situation at some time yourself. Should that occur, you will be grateful to a person such as myself with considerable experience for having discussed the subject at length and very glad you took a few minutes out from your busy day to read the information. The alternative, of course, is to only fly charter airplanes, and few can afford that. Of course one can always take the bus, but I believe that they also have restrooms on them. Same situation, slower speed, and there is absolutely no transiting of the Panama Canal on a bus. Well, a bus could do it if it were in the hold of a ship, but why bother? Indeed. Fat chance, Moosebreath. Try it if you must (the bus-canal thing), but it will break your heart. You could go to Cleveland on a bus, but you know what might happen there. If you don't know, please do not expect any information on that here. I hesitated to broach this unpleasant subject, but it can't be ignored. Personally, I place the blame on the Democrats. We will touch on similar subjects in epistles to follow, but, as always, good taste and delicacy will be strictly observed.
Toodle-Ooo

 

[A7inchPhildo]

Still following along!

Took me a bit to catch up today but I wouldn't miss a word. I didn't realize you were a pilot Mg. I am impressed, My sister inlaw just made her solo flight. I think more females should enter the world of aviation. It is so male oriented and truthfully women make better pilots.

152 that is a cute little plane/kite. I trained in a 150 which we still have and a fabric wing bird dog. The Boeing sterman Bi is still my favorite we have one operational and the other is a hanger queen. Personally I like the Malibu.....


Continue with the story dear! Your bound to get someplace sometime. ETA in Panama July?

*Edited to remove pictures

 

[Guest]

Re: Still following along!

Continue with the story dear! Your bound to get someplace sometime.

Maths, I'm with Phil (NOT literally, haha). I don't care if you don't arrive and return til new year's eve (of whatever year). Just hope I live long enough to read 'the end'. Seriously, I've never read anything like this, you have -excuse the academic in me- a voice.

ta, Perdita

 

[Wills]

MG do you suppose they could recycle the 'rest room' straight into the fuel tank? With the amount of alcohol you are all drinking could cut down on the fuel load, stock up with more little bottles. Of course, not the BM side, the other side.
Just a thought.

 

[Rumple Foreskin]

you have -excuse the academic in me- a voice.

Perdita,

That's not all she's got, Perdita, trust me. I keep waiting for MG to bump into a guy named Leopold Bloom.

Rumple Foreskin

 

[Guest]

Perdita, That's not all she's got, Perdita, trust me. I keep waiting for MG to bump into a guy named Leopold Bloom.

Ah, ha ha, Rumps. Could be interesting, esp. as Maths is, as she has put it, half hebe/half okie.

Perhaps we could think of a more winning title than this thread's. "Portrait of a Mathematician. . . "

Perdita

 

[Rumple Foreskin]

Perdita,

MathGirl and my kids are the same type of mutts. That topic always reminds me of the late Jackie Vernon, doing his woeful wimp standup routine saying he was the product of a mixed marriage. "My mother was a woman and my father was a man."

Rumple Foreskin

 

[MathGirl]

Subject: To Miami. Maybe even arriving, but probably not

Where was I? Oh, yes. I think I covered the inflight BM subject fairly thoroughly, so I won't go into that here. In fact, I promised not to bring it up again, and I'm sure you are grateful for that. End of subject. Finito. At least for now. John thinks the best thing about flying first class is that there are no children. They aren't important enough to shell out all that money to fly them in first class. If I had children (perish the thought), I would fly in first class and let the kids sit back with the ... in coach. I don't think they much care what happens back there. Let the attendants and other passengers suffer. Possibly a locked, soundproof room could be provided at the back of the plane. I also feel that small children should not be allowed in upscale stores. I was at Nordstrom yesterday, conducting the periodic exercise in futility which is, for me, shoe shopping. Nice atmosphere, top quality merchandise nicely displayed, helpful sales people, guy in a tuxedo quietly playing a grand piano, and a boy about five years old pitching a fit right there by the piano. Red in the face, screaming bloody murder, mouth open so you could see his tonsils, kicking at his mother, etc. This kid was big enough to really make a racket. Truly a righteous fit; a real classic. Something the mother should have on video to play for everyone in about twenty years at the kid's wedding reception. Scattered the customers, but the guy at the piano just switched to a medely of upbeat tunes to accompany the hysterical screams and watched the kid's performance with a bemused smile on his face. Very cool. The mother rose to the occasion, though, and ended the affair with a graceful forehand smack to the brat's cheek that could be heard down to the food court in the middle of the mall. The piano guy play the themesong from Rocky as Mom dragged the little bastard out the door, down the mall, and out into the parking lot. I'm sure I wasn't the only spectator who felt like applauding, and if it had happened at WalMart, I probably would have. I know my view is unenlightened, but I sincerely hoped he got his little ass blistered when he got home. I think the better stores should offer shoppers with small children a spanking service. The mom leaves her kid at the spaking booth when she enters the store, she is free to shop in a civilized manner, and the kids are thoroughly spanked in a soundproof room behind the booth. By the time Mom is finished shopping, the kid has been spanked, had a good bawl, and is in that post-screaming stupor which is familiar to all who have had or observed children. The perfect mood to be taken quietly home and put down for a nice nap. I'm sure the increase in sales would more than compensate the store for the facilities and personnel required for the spanking service. Go ahead, write irate responses and take me to task for my medieval attitudes towards children. I am firm in my conviction, though, and am young enough to remember times when Mom would have been only too happy to leave me to the tender mercies of the spanking staff. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito. After the breakfasts and the restroom experience that I'd rather forget, I came back to my seat to find Roxanne sitting on the armrest of John's seat chatting with him. I felt that she was leaning into him far too much, but at least she didn't have those big boobies to stick in his face like that other attendant had. Huh, I've forgotten her name already. You could go back to an earlier letter and find it if you need to know. Well, I got back into my seat, moved over to get next to John, and left no doubt in Roxanne's mind about who he was with. Whom, either. I'm like that, you know. Possessive. Well, you probably didn't know that, but you do now because I just told you. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito. Then we brifely discussed the couple in the corner who needed a bucket of water and the sleeping guy across the aisle who was no longer telling everyone how important and wealthy he was but was still cute as a stool sample. I've already told you about that, and I hope you were paying attention. I assumed that the MD 80 was still at 32K feet and going 500+ mph. I think that was a safe assumption, because we seemed to have been doing nothing but that very thing for hours and hours. It was light outside, but there was nothing to see but blue sky above and fleecy clouds below. Pretty, but not something that held my interest for too long. Besides, I was snuggled up against John and wasn't really close enough to the window to see much. Not that there was much to see anyway, of course. I assumed that Betty and Dick (probably Elizabeth and Richard, if their respective birth certificates were examined) were still at the controls of the MD 80, and I was still hoping they were paying attention. Roxanne left (hopefully to go spray the BM restroom with something) and I shut the window. Well, I didn't really shut it, because the actual window itself was not open. You just don't open the windows at 32K feet and 500+ knots, you know. Well, of course you do. The MD 80 has those plastic thingies you can slide to block out the light and whatever scenery might be going by. That's a feature on that model of plane. They have them on every airliner I've ever been on, in fact. Now, I can't speak with authority about them being present on all models of airliners, but I know my MD80s. They probably don't have them in back where the ... other passengers sit. Might not even have windows. Sort of like flying with the baggage. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito. I shut off my light, covered myself with my blanket, and snuggled up to John. He was reading, but he put his arm around me and read one handed. That's not hard to do, you know, compared to, say, one handed speed typing. He was still reading The Source by James A. Michener. I don't know what the A stands for. Could be Arthur, I suppose. It could also be Abner, Amos, Alonzo, Alfonse, Albert, Alan, Adelbert, Angus, Alfredo, or one of those other A names. I'm not sure it's really important, but you could probably look it up if you really need to know. You could also just ask Jim M, himself, but I doubt he would accept a collect call in the middle of the night from someone who wondered about his middle name. I don't really care, so I'm not going to look it up just to satisfy your idle curiosity. Sorry, but my willingness to supply gratuitious information is not without limit. Well, I was very comfy and just about asleep when John's arm went to sleep and he had to move it. I told you what that's called when an appendage goes to sleep, so I'm not going to repeat it here. You can go back and look it up if you need to know. This is taking too long anyway, and I'm just not in the mood to repeat myself just so you won't have to go back and look something up. You could also look up the first stewardess's name while you're looking up orthostatic neuroanesthesia. Oh, another term for it is positional neuropathy. I was sleepy, so I went back to my position of using John's lap for a pillow, lying sideways in my seat, bending my legs, and John put the blanket over me. I was really warm and comfy, and I could feel myself drifting off to sleep when I realized I needed to pee again. Darn. Not surprising, because of all the milk, TJ, vodka, and ice water I'd had with my three breakfasts. There's also a fair amount of water in food, you know, and that becomes serum water after the innards get everything sorted out. Hypothalamic osmoreceptors and antidiuretic hormones are beyond the scope of this little article, so let's just say that the serum water becomes urine. The excess, that is. Not really urgent, but I knew it was going to get worse and would wake me up in a few minutes. Needing to pee is like that, you know, it never gets better, and it almost always gets worse. I believe I mentioned that earlier. Well, it's still true, and repetition does nothing to diminish the innate verity of the statement. There I was, faced with a big decision. Should I let myself go to sleep knowing that I'd wake up in a few minutes and have to get up and go pee? Should I get up now, go pee, and come back knowing that I could go to sleep and not be woken up by a full bladder? Well, I suppose a third alternative would be to just do it right there in my pantyhose, but I never seriously considered that. If I'd done that, John would have put me on a plane back to Calif as soon as we got to Miami and continued on southeast without me. Probably in the company of Roxanne, because she acted like she wouldn't mind spending some quality time with him. I really didn't want to, but I got out from under my cozy blanket and got up to go to the restroom. Both restrooms were empty, and I was faced with the choice of which one to use. I felt that I'd had more than my fair share of BM vapor experiences already that morning, and I didn't want to make an unfortunate choice. A man had just emerged from one restroom carrying a newspaper. I thought that was a good indication that he'd probably been in there doing something I didn't want to share. I'm sure you catch my drift, and I sure didn't want to catch his. I chose the other restroom, and it was a good choice. Nice and fresh. Sort of cold in there, but that's better than you know what. Faced with that choice, give me cold every time. Not the kind of cold where your bottom would freeze to the seat, but brisk. Well, I got the dress up and the pantyhose down. Women have to do that, you know. Well, of course you do. While I was peeing, I thought about an article I'd read in one of Auntie's stupid magazines. Probably Cosmo. It was one of those Twenty Things You Can Do To Drive Your Man Wild, or some such. There's one of those articles in every issue, and they always put the title on the cover so women will pick one up while standing in line at the grocery story checkstand. They do that. Okay, okay, I'll admit that I occasionally find those articles irresistible, and I have purchased a magazine or two because of the teaser on the cover. One suggestion was to wait until you were at a party or some other public place, then tell your husband, boyfriend, or whatever that you had forgotten to wear panites. Well, I thought that was pretty silly, because you don't just forget to wear panties. You simply do not forget something like that. At least I sure don't. I wasn't wearing any panties right then, but it sure wasn't because I just forgot. I believe I mentioned that earlier, and I won't bore you with repetition. Heaven forbid. Anyway, the dumb article said that was a Sure Fire Way To Drive Him Wild. Well, I knew it was stupid, but I was feeling sort of frisky right then. Maybe it was the vodka I'd had before and after breakfast. Probably not, though, since I'm mostly that way when I'm with John, anyway. Affectionate. I thought about this when I was peeing. Then, instead of pulling up the pantyhose when I was finished, I took off the bootie thingies that came in the little zippered kit with the Delta logo and took off the pantyhose. Even after I got the skirt back down, it was pretty drafty down there, because the dress is short. I wadded up the pantyhose and stuffed them in one of those little bags they have for disposal of you know whats. Huh. As if anyone ever uses the stupid things. If you're using someone else's plumbing, who cares? Just flush the damned things and let whoever owns the plumbing worry about it. Considering some of the other stuff that gets flushed, that would seem inconsequential. When I got back to my seat, I handed the little bag to John and asked him to keep it for me. He looked inside and said What the hell is that? I told him it was my pantyhose and that I'd forgotten to wear panties under them. He gave me that look and told me to go back to the restroom and put them back on. So much for A Sure Fire Way To Drive Him Wild. By the time I got back to the restrooms, they were occupied; even the BM one. I had to stand there with that stupid bag in my hand, a breeze up my dress, and wait to get into the restroom so I could put the damned pantyhose back on. My face and ears felt hot. Well, that's enough for now. I'm sorry I didn't get us to Miami, but we were going almost ten miles a minute while all this was going on, so we're making progress. Getting the pantyhose on and off wasn't a complete waste of time, though. Not any more than anything else you do on a MD80 while it's in flight. The idea is to get where you're going, and taking pantyhose off and putting them back on is probably as good a way to pass the time as anything. Well, enough about that. End of subject. Finito.
Bye
Ps. Doris Ha!
Pps. Ok, I have to ask. Who is L.Bloom? I have a feeling that I'm gonna regret asking.

 

[Rumple Foreskin]

Pps. Ok, I have to ask. Who is L.Bloom? I have a feeling that I'm gonna regret asking.

Fret not. Bloom was the protag in James Joyce's "Ulysses." The dude spends most of the book wandering around Dublin daydreaming.

Rumple Foreskin

ps: I must have just beaten Perdita to the enter key. One other thing about "Ulysses," skip all the crap about Bloom. Just go to Molly's Soliloquy at the end of the book on account of how that's where all the dirty stuff is that got the book banned in Boston and the rest of the USA. RF

 

[Guest]

Maths, Leopold Bloom is the chief character in James Joyce's Ulysses. His wife is Molly Bloom. LB is Jewish, a Dubliner* too. The book and story take place in one day, June 16, the day Joyce met Nora Barnacle, his wife. Among the literati, June 16 is known as Bloomsday, and all over the world, including SF, people get together and read Ulysses aloud from start to finish.

I think Rumple mentioned Bloom cos Joyce is known for the stream-of-consciousness technique, particularly and exquisitely evolved in what is called "Molly Bloom's soliloquy", the last chapter of the book in which Molly speaks, as she thinks, while in bed. You will find no paras or the usual punctuation there, not unlike your travelogue style.

Also, FYI, the book is structured on Homer's Odyssey, and each chapter focuses on one body part and its function, plus major plots and characters from Homer's "book".

It's a neato book and changed the face of literature.

Perdita

*Joyce said that if Dublin were ever thoroughly destroyed one could rebuild it from the information in his text.

 

[Guest]

Joycean bits from Molly's soliloquy

... why arent all men like that thered be some consolation for a woman like that lovely little statue he bought I could look at him all day long curly head and his shoulders his finger up for you to listen theres real beauty and poetry for you I often felt I wanted to kiss him all over also his lovely young cock there so simply I wouldnt mind taking him in my mouth if nobody was looking as if it was asking you to suck it so clean and white he looked with his boyish face I would too in 1/2 a minute even if some of it went down what its only like gruel or the dew theres no danger besides hed be so clean compared with those pigs of men I suppose never dream of washing it from 1 years end to the other the most of them only thats what gives the women the moustaches Im sure itll be grand if I can only get in with a handsome young poet at my age...

Here is the ending:

... yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.

Bloomsday 100