How to Deal at 40,000 Feet: Dilemmas of Public Flatulence

After years of constant soy milk ingestion, my body adapted. My
innards became more efficient. My breasts became more tender. And of most importance: my physiology stopped producing lactose. Usually a plight of non-Europeans, I found myself in the company of most blacks, woefully lactose intolerant, much to the chagrin of anyone with a sense of smell.

It is said 98% of earth's population can smell.


I try to surround myself with the other two percent, but I do not
always get to choose my company. My friend Dan Crane's moustache filters the worst of it when I am with him, but my classmates are chosen seemingly at random; T Riders seem not have much choice about their lot; And sometimes the airline company forces me to sit with complete strangers, strangers who are at my mercy.

Aviation has revolutionized travel for the world, but with innovation
came set backs. Restrooms, unrealistically small and far away, are only at the tip of the iceberg. Those cramped seats force me to hunch over, concentrating my weight on my gut, creating undue pressures for lengthy periods on bowels.

Inevitably, nature seeks osmosis and my
embottled methanes and carbons try to escape. I try to hold it in. I
do try. But the ancient Romans knew-- it's just not healthy to hold it
in and I must relent.

The same air pressure systems that allows us to respirate normally
thousands of feet above the earth also imposes truly unique smells on your neighbors. They sustain the full plight of the chicken parmesans, the Chex Mix with 2%, the Cold Stone Birthday Remix. Those pressurizers not only surround your seatmates with those aromas, but also require them to suffer the odors time and time again as the finite air supply recycles in the overhead compartments, slow-filtered through your carry on back down on to your head via those little air blasting
nozzles.

Sudden temperature fluctuations can be observed soon after a
meal of fetticini alfredo is served on the flight from New York to
Singapore.

Orville Wright did not have the foresight to manipulate strange
smells, but take heed, you have options and the option lies beneath you. Yes, your seat cushion is the closest thing to a space station air
purifier you have if you're not an astronaut.

Step One: Simply brush the hand of that mother to be who looks like she is on the verge of puking into the seat pocket in front of her off the armrest, grab hold of the rest and dig in.

Put your center of mass into the
cushion and relax. Purified charcoal is a main constituent in those coach seats and they will actually absorb that chocolate malt you ingested in the gate terminal.

But wish good karma for the unfortunate soul who finds himself in the Gulf of Mexico using that very cushion as a flotation device,
grasping it tightly for his life as he takes his last fleeting gasp of
air and thinks: "Smells like 3:00 am Mexican and Danon yogurt. . ."