An Airplane DisASSter

I’ve oft thought of myself as an adventurous eater, so when I opted for a pretzel dog at LaGuardia airport on a recent business trip, I figured I was playing it safe. I mean sure, it’s a bit unconventional – it’s not in a bun nor wrapped in fried corn dough, but come on, it’s combining two very pedestrian foods: soft pretzels and hot dogs (Nathan’s hot dogs, to be clear). Plus, it was NYC and I figured I had to get in my hot dog fix somewhere since I spent 95 percent of the trip in New Jersey. 

So, I belly up to the counter at Auntie Anne’s and peruse the menu. It’s around 4 p.m. or so and I’m pretty hungry, so I opt for the jumbo pretzel dog meal, which comes with a footlong dog, cheese and a drink. A bargain at $8.50. I ate it so fast I probably looked like I was some porn star on vacation, but I didn’t care at that point. It was pretty darn good. Plus, can’t go wrong with nacho cheese.

Stopped up? Try a Pretzel Dog!

After a slight delay, we board the plane. I’m full and tired, so I figure I’ll just situate the neck pillow and zonk out. That’s when the captain comes over the intercom and says, “Folks, got some bad news. We’ve got a major storm system approaching to the west, so we’re going to be grounded for at least an hour.”

An hour? I can manage. Sure, I’m tired and a bit grumpy, but hell, I’ll still be home relatively early, so no big deal. Just as I’m starting to zone out, the captain comes back on and says, “Folks, sorry to say, but I’ve got MORE bad news. Ya see, we seem to have a loose bolt in one of our wheel wells and it’s going to take another hour and a half for us to fix it.”

I look at my coworker Candace sitting two rows behind me, mouth a few expletives to express my annoyance, and decide to browse through Sky Mall. Then I start feeling a little queasy and figure it’s just from sitting in such tight quarters. Then I start getting gassy and have to crap. I assume it was probably all the nacho cheese and instantly regret eating it because farting on a plane is tantamount to dutch oven-ing the people in my row .  So I vent to Candace:

But who poops on a plane? Not me. Ever. I don’t do road games, especially in a bathroom the size of a Cracker Jack box. So, we decide to deplane since we figure we’re going to be on this plane for quite a while before takeoff AND it’s a four-hour flight. I hit the restroom and as I’m sitting there, I’m thinking I’ll probably get hungry again. What do I do? I’m vulnerable and not thinking clearly at that point, so I grab another f-ing pretzel dog. This time with spicy nacho cheese. And yes, I have a very short-term memory. The guy behind the counter was the same guy who served me before, but this time he was super nice and complimented my necklace, which in hindsight really meant, "See, I'm a nice person, so don't hate me for what's about to happen to your colon."

I take my meal back to the plane, wolf it down, then lay back hoping for some shut-eye. Little did I know I should’ve been praying for some shut-browneye. First, it was the cold sweats. Then the hot sweats. Then the stomach rumble. Of course I was sitting in "B," which for those unfamiliar, it means the middle or "sitting bitch," as some fondly like to call it. And that term is definitely appropriate. I politely tell the Asian guy sitting in the aisle that I need to use the restroom. Note that we’re still grounded.

I head down the aisle and there’s a bunch of people congregating. Attempting to suck in your stomach to make yourself model skinny in order to get past a group of people…while trying not to crap your pants is quite a feat. But I made it to the toilet and did what I needed to do, as ungodly as it was. Relief comes over me, the sweat subsides and I head on back to my seat. This colon is CLEAR!

And to make the situation even better, we’re ready for takeoff. Brilliant! I settle in, close my eyes and fall asleep…for all of 10 minutes when I realize that the incline of the plane stirred something up inside and I have to hit the john again.

Some deep breaths, lip biting and white knuckling the armrest helped me hold it until 10,000 feet, but the stupid f-ing seatbelt sign was still on. Sorry peeps, my ass don’t give a shit about seatbelt signs. I get up and thank GOD all the flight attendants are in front of the plane and can’t order me back to my seat. I book it. As I shut the door, the captain comes over the intercom and says, “Folks, I’m keeping the seatbelt sign on for a bit, as we’re heading into some fairly nasty turbulence.”

F…M…L… Having diarrhea is horrible in itself. Having diarrhea on a plane is like getting tea-bagged by a transient. But having diarrhea on a plane while it’s going through turbulence belongs in the 7^th circle of hell. I’m pretty sure I had a near death experience trying to harness myself on the pot using the handlebar and the sink so as not to come out of the bathroom looking like I got hit by a typhoon of ass juice.  I was like the Evel Knievel  of poo wrangling.

I finish up, bounce back and forth between rows like a pinball because those turbulence are still aggressive, and land in my seat, completely wiped (pun intended). No less than 30 despicable minutes later, I have to go again. I finally decide to own up to Asian Aisle Seat Guy and let him know that I’m pretty sure I ate poisonous pretzel dogs, have wicked diarrhea and that I need to get up again. “Diarrhea?” he asks in his Asian accent (have no idea which one, so don’t hate…but it sounded like “Die-a-wee-ahhh”). He looks at me like I told him I had the Ebola virus. I nod and he quickly gets up and lets me pass, making sure not to touch me. This seat dance happens two more times before we finally land, the poor guy. I would’ve shaken his hand, but we all know how that would’ve gone.  

In sum, Jesus H. Christ! How can a pretzel dog (or two) rip me a new asshole? I was sick all the next day, too. Was that really a pretzel dog, or did someone decide it would be super awesome to feed me two-day-old leftover doggers from 7-Eleven?  Was that nacho cheese or coagulated Ex-Lax? Either way, the morale of the story is that just because I was in a city known for the hot dog, the only thing hot about the pretzel dog was the burning in my anus.

On the bright side, I lost 5 lbs and got to meet Birdman! The end.

Me, Birdman from the Nuggets and Candace. This is pre-colon blow.

An Ode To The California Burrito

There’s something to be said about burritos. They’re a meal (a G-D gut bomb at that) wrapped up in a tortilla. You can put pretty much anything in them. Shit, you can put another burrito in them (aka “The Pregnant Burrito”). Portable, delicious…and the reason Beano was invented. But not all burritos fall in the realm of what I like to call “Holy Mother Of All that Gives Me Colonic Hardship, But Worth The Trip To The Toilet.”

Lucky for San Diego, they invented something worth a day of colon blows: The California Burrito. Typically if you live anywhere other than California, any meal with “California” in the title means avocado, sprouts and something healthy. But get your sweet ass to San Diego, because that city is the antithesis of the leafy green veggie assault you expect from California…in the form of what’s called the California Burrito. What’s in this magnificent handheld piece of wonderment you ask? Um, all that’s delicious, duh.

They start with carne asada. That in itself is downright poop-your-pants delicious. It’s essentially a thin steak that’s grilled and cut into bits or strips and serves as the protein base for the burrito. Then comes a heart-attack load of cheese, a dollop of sour cream that was probably loaded on there by one of the employee’s low rider trucks parked in the back. You know, the one with decked out with sweet decals in that old English lettering that looks like someone barfed up serifs everywhere.

And the best part: FRENCH FRIES. You heard that right, folks. Just because it’s not a breakfast burrito doesn’t mean it can’t get some tuber action. And it does. It flexes its starch muscles like some overly tanned meathead…but in this case, a meathead with a brain (I mean, you have to be a GENIUS to include something French in a Mexican dish. There’s a sex joke in there somewhere).



I would've smiled like a Cheshire cat in this pic because I was in Mexi-heaven, but alas, my teeth were busy assaulting some California burrito goodness.



Anyway, it’s probably one of the best burritos I’ve had in my life, and you can get them anywhere in San Diego. Some people go to San Diego to chill at the beach…my next trip there will be to eat my weight in California burritos.

Oh, and if you’re still hungry after the burrito (what are you, a fat ass like me?), try the carne asada fries. Basically a box full of French fries covered in carne asada, cheese, sour cream, guac and overall awesomeness. You might want to bring a portable defibrillator…just to be on the safe side. CLEAR!