Airplane Etiquette….or Five Pet Peeves When Traveling with Saul

1. Carry On Luggage – Saul refuses to check his bags. He stuffs his duffle bag to the breaking point, and, because of his sciatica, requires a flight attendant or another passenger to assist placing it into the overhead bin. Saul also fails to remove his laptop case from his shoulder before boarding, insisting on swinging left, then right, then left, then right again to look for his seat, thwacking anyone seated nearby in the face. My favorite was when I traveled with Saul on a recent business trip to Baltimore: he put his roller suitcase in the bin sideways, then put his laptop flat next to it, and next to that he sloooooowly folded his suit jacket and put it in. I took great joy in doing a one-armed sweep in the bin and shoving my bag right on top of his pristinely folded suit jacket.

2. Seat Poaching and Seat Bleeding -- You’ve seen them. You’ve been inconvenienced by them. They are Seat Poachers. Saul is an expert at it. Although all airline companies provide you with the opportunity to either pick your own seat online or print your boarding pass at home, Saul refuses to do so. His routine: After being refused a complimentary upgrade to First Class, he waits for the cabin door to close, then attentively scans the business class section for a vacant seat. Without asking permission, he reseats himself. Now, I pay the extra twenty bucks for the business class upgrade -- more legroom, even though I prefer a window. Within minutes of the cabin door closure, Saul poached himself the middle seat next to me. I just wasted $20. Additionally, as you are aware, Saul is fat. When he flies, he is the guy who asks for the seatbelt extender. Then he bleeds into your seat, with his eczema encrusted elbows scratching your forearm and his love handles jiggling like jelly against your side. On this occasion, despite his squatter right attempts to suck in his obesity, I could see the weariness in his sleepy eyes. I finally told him to “Let it all go,” and, regrettably, we spent the rest of the flight spooning.

3. Listen to the Flight Attendants – Frequent Fliers, such has me, tend to tone out the flight attendants’ pre-flight instructions. My wife, who does not fly much, intently listens to every word. She once joked about the oxygen mask disclaimer: “Breathe normally? If I am in a situation where the oxygen mask drops in front of me, I will probably be peeing my pants. And you want me to breathe normally?” Saul, on the other hand, is the guy who talks on his mobile phone while on board, despite the ecumenical announcement to turn off all electronic devices and to listen to the flight attendants’ instructions. Saul thinks he is important, and that business life cannot survive the time that he will be away from the office. His conversations are loud, annoying and braggadocios. Of course he knows that people cannot avoid listening. The dialogue is always the same -- insisting that the executive assistance e-mail to him a Power Point presentation that he forgot to download. Hey, Saul – You’re not that important. In fact, you’re a twat. Turn off the cell phone and listen to the flight attendants. If I trip on your “Carry On” that is not properly stored under the seat in front of you or have to wait for you to remember that your seat cushion can be used as a floatation device, I am going to kill you if I survive the crash simply for the extra minutes of panic that you would cause me.

4. Personal Behavior and Bathroom Trips -- Certain personal behavior should be done in the privacy of your own home and not in public. Picking or excavating anything while in your seat should be punishable by death. That includes clipping nails, picking anything (zits, scabs, nose), and using a Pepsi bottle to expectorate your chewing tobacco. Furthermore, loud personal noises, usually mucous related, are disgusting. Blow your nose already so I don’t have to suffer through a snort every minute or so. Also, the seat cushion is not a fart sponge. In this day and age, when you have to arrive at the airport several hours before a flight and sit around the waiting area for half of that time, why, oh why, must people use the bathroom on the plane. On my one hour flight from Denver to Fresno, seated in the back of an Embraer 175 E-Jet next to the lavatory, and despite the seat belt sign being constantly lit during the turbulent flight, more than half of the passengers decided to use the bathroom, with half of them refusing to properly close the door when they were finished. The stench was unbecoming. Then there was the flight from Pittsburgh to Nashville -- not only did I have Saul bleeding into my personal space, with his IPod volume turned up to 10, providing me with excruciatingly painful tidbits of Lady GaGa’s Poker Face, this asshole refused to give me the window seat that he poached. Then he had to pee every ten minutes, making me get up and down from my seat. And I had even greater sympathy for the person seated in front of him. Each time Saul had to use the bathroom, he pulled himself up by yanking on the seat in front of him, catapulting the poor lady into First Class. And his pee excursions always seemed to happen when the beverage cart was in the aisle, causing him to sit on my armrest until the flight attendants were able to move the cart.

5. Deplaning – The plane lands. The seatbelt sign is still turned on. BUT, Saul decides it is time to get up and thinks it okay for him to get his bag. Yes, he is one of the idiots that are seated in the back and stand up, hunched over, waiting the ten minutes for the other passengers to disembark. Sit down already and be patient. Your primary concern at this moment should be thanking God that you arrived safely.

Baltimore Convention Update

Readers of my blog have now discovered a continued annoyance with one of my co-workers. In order to avoid litigation, I simply refer to him as “Saul.” Regrettably, I had the pleasure of attending a conference with Saul in Baltimore last week. Although I loved the Blue Crabs at Bo Brooks and a fine bottle of Fat Bastard Chardonnay, I did not enjoy the company, which aggravated the Hell out of me by the second day. So much so, that I began to drop the “F-Bomb.” Yes, perhaps I am being too critical of this sleepy eyed monster, but you can be the judge.

One of the conference attendees had a Great Grandmother (who was 98 years old) recently pass away. Saul’s response: "Life is short." What the fuck does that mean?! Life is the longest damn thing anyone ever fucking does!!! What can you do that's longer? Especially for a 98 year old woman.

Throughout the day, Saul habitually pointed at his wrist every time he asked someone for the time. I know where my watch is, Pal. Where the fuck is yours? Do I point at my crotch when I ask you where the toilet is?

I overheard Saul on his mobile phone, speaking to one of his team members back in Pittsburgh, who was complaining about a project. "Oh, you just want to have your cake and eat it too," Saul mumbled. My response: “Fucking right, Chubby! What good is a cake if you can't eat it?”

Often, Saul asked, "Can I ask you a question?” Didn't really give me a choice there, did you Sunshine? And, of course, his questions were related to what time it was.

Finally, I lost my Bluetooth. After a ten minute search, I found it in the convention hall’s cafeteria. Saul quipped, "It's always the last place you look." Of course it is, Einstein! Why the fuck would you keep looking after you've found it? Do people do this? Does Saul do this?

Luckily, the conference is over, and I am back home in Pittsburgh. However, so is Saul.

Farting

It started off innocuously enough with Saul forwarding the above cartoon to his team members. Then, it simply digressed into chaos:

NO Bare Feet in the Office!

Spring has sprung, and with Spring comes the Jesus sandal wearers in our office. I have never been an advocate for a business casual dress code, deeming it demeaning to the otherwise austereness of employment; however, even being submissive to this contemporary trend, I still protest the permissive donning of open-toed sandals.

Cracked, calloused heels. Thick, yellow toenails. Bunions, blisters and hammer toe. Cheesy buildup. Pasty, ashen white feet. Unfortunately for me, Saul’s feet display almost all of these combinations of atrocities. One word: “Gross.” Despite my repeated hints, Saul forces the rest of us to suffer through his podiatric peculiarities, which is simply wrong. For the female readers: Ladies, no 12-dollar French pedicure can hide the fact that your twisted toes are slithering past the ends of your strappy stilettos and leaving scratch marks on the linoleum. For the male readers, including Saul: Guys, only two men in history could make sandals work: Jesus and Spartacus—and one of them was a back scrubber at a Roman bath house. If you’re not the Son of God, save yourself the embarrassment and the rest of us the nausea by hiding your hairy buckshanks in a pair of decent-looking sneakers. No one wants to see your feet.

Bring Your Daughter to Work Day

Saul brought his daughter to work the other day. He was the only one to do so. Remember that Saul works nearly ten hours a day, and, yes, his daughter was with him for that entire time. How do I know? I called his desk phone at 7:00 PM and his daughter answered.

I have always had my scruples about the benefits of this annual festival; which, I have observed, in other workplaces, breaks down into a chaotic daycare atmosphere when some employees bring their preschoolers, kindergartners and elementary school children to work. However, the "Take Our Daughters to Work Foundation" (yes, there is such an organization) extols the Day’s virtues, stating that: “exposing girls to what a parent does during the work day is important, but showing them the value of their education, helping them discover the power and possibilities associated with a balanced work and family life, and providing them an opportunity to share how they envision the future and begin steps toward their end goals in a hands-on and interactive environment is key to achieving success.” I am not sure how watching Saul punch numbers into his computer while his daughter plays games on a Nintendo DS achieves success. I prefer to show my daughter the value of education by keeping her in school that day to learn math, science and the outcome of the Battle of Antietam.

I have often said that I am not sure what Saul actually does. From what I can gather, he processes and approves invoices for payment that have already been approved for payment. Seems circuitous and a waste of money to me, but, hey, who am I to argue?! The day started with his daughter sitting in his chair while Saul tried to explain to her his job. By lunchtime, I spied his daughter sitting on the opposite side of his desk, reading her Laurel Ingall’s book and texting other reprobates equally bored with their parents’ lines of work.

Also on this particular day, I noticed that Saul’s “sleepy” eyes were more prevalent. Against my better judgment, I inquired. Saul had contradicted mono. His physician recommended bed rest, which Saul declined, despite the fact that Saul’s spleen is engorged like an overripe tomato.

To end the day, Saul overheard me telling a co-worker that my father was experiencing back pain. Saul scooted his daughter away from the water cooler and into his office, after which he began the following disseration of muscle relaxers: “Did they put him on Vicodin? Oxycodine? Percocet? Demerol? I’ve taken them all – Darvocet, Soma, Flexeril, Cyclobenzaprine -- even the Eperison Patch. I suggest a non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drug like Naproxen. But, if they put him on an Opioid, tell him to take only Ibuprofen, not Tylenol or any acetaminophen.” I stopped the diatribe, lying to Saul; saying that I had a conference call that I was late to attend. I closed my door, slunk in the chair and kicked myself.

Saul's T(ight) Shirt

When I wandered over to the coffee pot this morning, walking past Saul's office, I noticed that he was sulking; looking especially dour. However, what initially caught my eye was not his depressed countenance, but the shirt he was wearing. Saul works for a telecomm company - let's call it Locust. With each project, Saul collects the freebies that the market teams give away, including logo jackets and, in this case, t-shirts. Today, Saul was sporting a blazing red, Locust embossed, silk-screened t-shirt that was smaller than the onesies my infant son wears. Not only did the t-shirt greatly amplify Saul's rotundity, but you could see his nipples.

Once I overcame my shock, Saul coaxed me into this office, informing me of his recent visit to a back specialist, where he verbally expressed his dismay to the attending anesthesiologist. Apparently, the anesthesiologist poked her needle a bit too far into Saul's spine, giving rise to Saul's opinion of the matter -- "You Mother F-er!" Needless to say, when an ugly, obese man with sleepy eyes accosts you in such a manner, you don't stick around for any remaining punishment. And, this doctor did not either. She left the room, leaving Saul with a three inch needle protruding from his back. A medical intern completed the procedure.

Now, Saul claims that he is having psychological problems related to the anesthesiologist and wants to sue the hospital. Mind you, he does not have any "observable" injury other than his pre-existing siatica and a Band-Aid on his lower torso. After contacting an attorney friend of mine, who laughed at the suggestion of my referring Saul to his law firm -- (not a very polite method of turning down a case, I might add) -- I have decided to keep my door closed at work and forgo coffee for Lent.

El Che

The other day when my buddy Saul came into my office, he drew a picture on my white board of his supposed herniated disc to show me how his back pain was being aggravated by a fluid sac rubbing against his spinal cord. He informed me that, although he asked his physician to prescribe him Vicodin, the doctor recommended some form of PT, including a traction device. The conversation dragged as usual until he mentioned that he had seen a great movie over the weekend about Che Guevara. Not being a master of history, Saul regurgitated the populist rhetoric of El Che's glories. I stopped him in mid-sentence, pleading for him to not recite revisionist history attempting to make this notorious, ruthless a-hole into a modern hero. Saul sulked, left my office and, later, sent me the attached picture.