Breaking the Code

I know it's been three days since I flew into Ft. Worth but I can't stop thinking about the woman I sat next to on the plane.

She was an older woman. She fidgeted in her seat. She talked to herself. Sometimes she made odd, convulsive movements.

She also farted.

A lot.

The intensity of these stinkbursts left no doubt that they were coming from my neighbor's ass. I couldn't even turn toward her because I'm sure I would have shot her a look that would have burned a hole into the back of her skull.

Her stench would hit me and I would just tilt my head back and move my fingers in front of my face trying to brush away some of the molecules that had just come from her intestines.

Finally I'd had enough and I reached into my bag to get a piece of paper. I was planning to write, "Please. For the love of God. Stop farting."

Then the pilot announced that we were beginning our descent.

She farted one last time before we hit the ground.

By this forth salvo, I'm pretty sure I'd deciphered the scent code of her butt steam. It was obvious she'd been eating fermented earthworms and dogshit.