On a flight from St. Louis to Las Vegas last year, a friend and I had the unfortunate opportunity of being seated next to a middle-aged man — we’ll call him Doug — who was so obviously intoxicated, it’s a wonder why he was ever let on the plane in the first place. He was the type of guy that had no idea how drunk and annoying he was, asking crude questions, and making idiotic (yet completely serious) statements like, “check out that a glacier,” while pointing at a cloud passing by outside.
The guy just couldn’t take a hint. We tried everything: wearing headphones, faking sleep, telling him — and I quote — “Doug, we’re going to listen to some music, so if you could please leave us alone.” Still, he continued on with his drunken story telling.
Even completely ignoring him did nothing — he was a machine, a big, red-faced, booze machine whose sole mission was to annoy every single person on the flight. Once he realized we were ignoring him, he moved on to harass other passengers: first across the isle, then the row in front, and then the row behind. Pretty soon he was shouting 3 and 4 rows ahead asking some poor young girl what college she went to. Wherever it was, he said before she had a chance to answer, they should change the official mascot to her. Oh boy.
I can only imagine how much he had to drink before he got on the plane, but even so, the flight attendants served him two more drinks despite my subtle finger-across-the-neck gesturing. After refusing the third (perhaps she saw me this time: “sorry, only two drinks per passenger!”), Doug took matters into his own hands and went to the restroom, stealing three or four more micro bottles of Jack Daniels from the drink cart on his way back to the seat. So he drank more.
Luckily we had a stopover in Salt Lake City, and Doug went on to Sacramento while we left for Vegas. I’ll never forget good ole’ Doug, and as I watched his plane taxi from the comfort of the Salt Lake airport, I thought of the poor souls he was seated near on the way to Sacramento.
Point being, I ran across this article from the Onion titled, “You Look Like You Could Use Someone To Talk To On This 5-Hour Bus Ride,” a first person account from the prospective of that one guy — the drunk passenger, the talker, the smelly one — who, after observing his mannerisms at the bus station or security line from afar, you pray won’t be seated next to you, but inevitably is. Doug was that guy for my friend and I, and I know each of you who have traveled more than a few times has a similar story, so let’s hear it. Please share in the comments!
[via WorldHum]