“You don’t know what that’s touched! So you shouldn’t touch it!”
This on-airplane advice I get from my dad all the time can now officially be met with:
“You’re wrong. And you’re 100% right. Respectively.”
Because now, thanks to a beautiful new trend called “passenger shaming”, I know exactly what my tray tables, seats, and headrests have touched. And it makes me wish I could fly while I fly – so that I don’t have to make skin contact with any of it. Ever again. An airplane post I made a while ago spotlighted the ick-factor of feces making its way into the stuff you touch, eat, and drink. But that abstract idea can be easy to forget. It’s a hypothetical. It’s conceptual. I can’t see the sentient petri-dish of a passenger forwarding their germs inconspicuously to me like star crossed E. Coli lovers passing love notes in class. They might not even exist for all I know.
They fly among us:
(If I were to poke his feet with the forks they provide in their mierda meals for being in my personal space… could he really complain to anyone? That’s like a robber suing you for self-defense.)
Or this guy who’s preparing for his beach holiday a bit early:
(Dude, it’s like two degrees on those planes. Mayhaps if we were a bit less insulated with a nice thick layer of adipose tissue, we wouldn’t be so warm. Then we could keep on our garb and avoid the risk of your chest pubes somehow finding their way to me and my face.)
Or you can always fly the fappy skies:
This passenger shaming’s all fun and games until someone ends up on here that I used to know. Yeah, no. This dude does this everywhere. Take it from me. You’re better off with him being passed out like this and you’re just lucky his pants are still on at all – with or without the Al Bundy snooze pose.
Well that was fun – gazing into the disgusting abyss of humanity.
I offer my gratitude to everyone who sends these in. It’s excellent confirmation of my irrational fear and why I indulge it via avoidance. And as for the psychology behind these random acts of caveman? Well, one poster mentioned something akin to how there’s that mentality on a plane of “I dunno you, you dunno me, we’re never gonna see eachother again, so here’s how I act when I’m at home on my couch between jerking off and ordering pizza.” And I get that. I don’t know you. But you don’t know me either.
Which means, unfortunately, you probably also don’t know about my rules.
So, magnanimous as I am, I’ll enlighten you: should your body parts enter my “bubble”…
…they become mine.