Atlanta to Gatwick, March 2007: We’re flying BA, my husband has the window seat, I have the middle seat, and here comes the guy with the aisle seat. He sits down and starts handling religious pamphlets, from a particular “brand” of religion that is very big on proselytizig. I think “oh no” and don’t say anything for fear of starting a conversation. That was the good part. The first time he shifts in his seat there is this awful odor. Pure stench. Then he starts passing gas, and I realize the odor from when he shifted was the odor of clothing that was gas permeated and had been for some time. For the entire, long flight, he passed gas. Even when he wasn’t passing gas, if he so much as moved a little bit, the other odor rose up from his clothing. There was no where to move seats, so we had to stay there. Ordinarily, I’m one of those people who needs to use the restroom fairly often, but I was sitting there with my legs crossed and my teeth clenched, because if I got up, he shifted, and here came the awful old-gas-in-the-clothing odor. I got up once during the flight and my husband did not get up at all, in our pathetic attempt to minimize the odors emanating from this disgusting man.
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I would have made a brimstone joke.
Ugh. Sorry you had to suffer this, but I feel you handled it nicely, no dirty looks, etc. So bravo to you. And again, sorry you had to suffer.
Hah hah hah! This is the first story in a while that made me so much as chuckle.
I suppose that it really depends on the situation, though, because I have seen truly funny writers who were unable, for all of their wonderful metaphors and hyperbole, make a particular situation very funny.