For snoring

Goddamn my penchant for alternative rock.

Shawn Colvin couldn’t cut it. The Cure had no chance.

Peter Gabriel? The Police? R.E.M.? Train?

Pussies. The lot of ‘em.

And certainly no match for the 250 lb. snoring man squeezed in the center seat next to me on the flight to Miami last Thursday.
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It really wasn’t the snoring that bothered me so much at first.

For the better part of ten years I’ve slept with a man whose sonorous slumberings can range from a soft Shemp-ish whistle to a wild-boars-fucking-on-a-drum-kit cacophony, depending on the quality and quantity of Scotch he’s been drinking.

So I’m a veteran at ignoring the snoring.

It was the deep, laborious breathing – his body literally battling its own fat to stay alive – that was causing me to hyperventilate.

The hyperventilation situation was exacerbated by a skinny little chooch in the seat ahead of me who kept popping up to glare at us like a Jack in the box on Viagra.

Realizing that his red-faced stare was completely wasted on the snoring dude, 16C (being an obvious Man of Action) called the flight attendant.

“Can you do something about the snoring?” he asked, jerking his thumb backwards, as if the flight attendant needed help identifying the source of the racket that could be heard more than five rows ahead.

“Ear plugs,” she replied glibly. “I never go anywhere without them. If you think it’s bad now, wait ‘til people are allowed to talk on their cell phones on planes. You’ll wish for snoring.”

Her answer sure didn’t seem all that satisfying to me, but 16C finally stopped with the popping – a sure sign of satiation.
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In spite of all the nasal noise, I actually preferred it when the guy was sleeping. Why?

Oh, let’s see.

“Key West? I hear there’s an awful lotta queers there.”

“How much are the drinks back here? Seven bucks, heh heh heh? B'cause I usually fly first class.”

“If it weren’t for the A-rabs, the gas prices wouldn’t be so goddamn outrageous.”

And that’s just a wee sampling of the charm fairly oozing from this heaving buffoon.
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Towards the end of the flight, the snoring dude’s eyes snapped open and he yelled “BATHROOM!” as if a commode would magically appear before him at the command.

I was moving to close my laptop and stand up to let him out, when this surprisingly nimble nitwit leaped up, spun around and flopped one ginormous leg over me into the aisle.

I had to close my eyes at that point and thank sweet Jesus for bestowing an exit row seat on me because if it weren’t for that, I’d have suffocated in this man’s belly for sure.
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"So was I snoring?"

What I wanted to say: "YES you fat-ass homophobic FUCK. Thanks so much for making this flight only slightly less miserable than being screwed in the ear by a drunken wild boar."
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So tell us, Hedy, did you ever find a tune to cover up the snoring?

Yep.

Sammy Hagar’s Mas Tequila worked best.
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I am reading: Complete & Utter Failure by Neil Steinberg
I am listening to: For Snoring mix on iTunes
And I am: Surprisingly crabby