It’s not often you see an airline pilot wearing a soul patch. You know that little tuft of hair just under the bottom lip in lieu of a full beard or even a goatee? Since most of these dudes are pretty clean cut such a thing really stands out against their pressed white shirt and pilot hat.
A soul patch says a lot about a personality, especially when it’s the only telltale sign of one. A rebel wears a soul patch. The anti-authority, flying by his own rules. He probably owns a leather vest.
And he has bad breath.
Wait…what?
Oh yeah. Bad, bad breath. Fills the cockpit like a radiation leak. I turn my air vent to full force and aim it just off my nose to deflect the offense. But even though it is far more powerful than the piddly little thing you poor souls in the back of the plane have above your heads, my airline pilot air vent has little effect.
Making matters worse, he lives three hours from the airport, so he drove all night. Now every yawn drags me further into the depths of toxic hell. I used to live near a landfill and would now welcome a return. My dilemma is multifaceted. If I talk to him, it may serve to wake him up and maybe he’ll stop yawning. But talking is just as bad. And sleeping people don’t yawn. But if I allow him to sleep, I now become a single pilot. Not that it’s unprecedented, just not preferred.
And then I remember the Welch’s Strawberry Fruit Snacks in my bag. I’m not normally prone to sharing, but this is a desperate situation. To my surprise, he actually partakes. To my dismay, the solution still eludes me.
At our next stop I must find some sour patch balls. Or Altoids. I’m curious to know if they’re strong enough…
A soul patch says a lot about a personality, especially when it’s the only telltale sign of one. A rebel wears a soul patch. The anti-authority, flying by his own rules. He probably owns a leather vest.
And he has bad breath.
Wait…what?
Oh yeah. Bad, bad breath. Fills the cockpit like a radiation leak. I turn my air vent to full force and aim it just off my nose to deflect the offense. But even though it is far more powerful than the piddly little thing you poor souls in the back of the plane have above your heads, my airline pilot air vent has little effect.
Making matters worse, he lives three hours from the airport, so he drove all night. Now every yawn drags me further into the depths of toxic hell. I used to live near a landfill and would now welcome a return. My dilemma is multifaceted. If I talk to him, it may serve to wake him up and maybe he’ll stop yawning. But talking is just as bad. And sleeping people don’t yawn. But if I allow him to sleep, I now become a single pilot. Not that it’s unprecedented, just not preferred.
And then I remember the Welch’s Strawberry Fruit Snacks in my bag. I’m not normally prone to sharing, but this is a desperate situation. To my surprise, he actually partakes. To my dismay, the solution still eludes me.
At our next stop I must find some sour patch balls. Or Altoids. I’m curious to know if they’re strong enough…
