Stinky Old Lady Poop and Airport Holy Wars.

So today I traveled from the sweaty, rain-drenched filthpit of New Orleans to the welcome sunshine of California. Overall it was an irritating trip, to say the least.

When I got on the first plane, and everyone was settled in, that is when they decided to tell us that there was going to be a 45 minute delay getting off the ground. Bad weather, or something like that. So, I figured I'd go pee while I had the chance. I went back to the "lavatory," as they call it on airplanes, and opened the door, which read "vacant" on the little indicator by the handle. To my surprise, there was a little old woman in there, standing at the sink, thankfully already done with her business. She was five foot nothing with large spectacles and a mop of curly white hair - the archetypal Grandmother. I apologized and reached to shut the door again, but she said it was alright, that she was just coming out. "That's why I had the door unlocked," she told me, in that "Grandma knows best" tone of voice. She then told me, looking back into the bathroom somewhat hesitantly, "I don't think there's a way to flush in there, but if there is I'll leave it up to you." At least I think that's what she said. It was an awkward moment, and I was anxious for it to end, so I paid no mind to her comment and simply said "okay," and made my way into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. Not really looking, I reached to lift up the toilet seat while fumbling with my zipper. And then I smelled something that hit my nose like a fist. I looked down and saw it, staring back up at me: In the dry toilet basin sat a single, large, oily greenish-brown old lady turd. It was long - serpentine, if you will - and it was nestled comfortably under a blanket of cheap single-ply airplane toilet paper, which itself was decorated in Grandma's colorful skid marks. Oh, and it stunk like the fucking unholy bowels of Satan.

There is a function of toilet water that most people rarely, if ever, consider: The water considerably masks the ripe odor of a stinky poo. However much your shit might stink, consider that, if it were not safely submerged in its porcelain swimming pool, it would be at least three times more potent. And this, as frequent travelers are aware, is exactly what happens with the water-free toilets in airport lavatories.

So the old lady turd was just sitting there, in the open air, its stench free to permeate the claustrophobic interior of the bathroom. I literally almost gagged, it was so strong. Also, it looked as though Grandma had eaten something with spinach in it for her most recent meal. For a brief moment I became concerned for the elderly woman's digestive health, and wondered if I should suggest to her that perhaps she talk with her doctor about incorporating more fiber or other digestive aids into her diet, since her system was clearly not effectively processing leafy greens, which we all know are a very important part of a healthy lifestyle. And then I remembered my far more immediate concern, which was the increasingly unbearable stench of bodily waste, presently causing me to feel a bit light-headed. I quickly reached down for the button labeled "PUSH TO FLUSH," which somehow the old woman hadn't managed to spot, despite it being in plain sight. The toilet made that magnificently loud "FWOOOOSH!" sound that airplane toilets make, as the bottom of the basin opened up and sucked the turd away into darkness. However, Grandma's hotsnake had marked its territory. It had left a piece of itself behind as a reminder, a long streak of brown on the curved interior of the toilet. Grimacing, I peed, quickly washed my hands, and made for the exit. And as soon as I opened the door and started to step out, I stopped dead in my tracks. Who was standing there, waiting for the next vacancy, staring me right in the eyes as I froze up awkwardly in the doorway? It was the prettiest girl on the plane, of course: a young blonde-hair-blue-eyed girl-next-door type who I'd noticed in line boarding the plane. And she was about to step into a nauseating sauna of filth, of which she would surely assume - not unreasonably - that I was the culprit of. I had to say something. I had to assure her that I had not produced such an ungodly odor, nor decorated the toilet so magnificently with spinach-colored turd remnants. The moment was only getting more awkward as I stood there, like a deer in headlights. As her nose was no doubt already detecting the first signs of wretchedness. SAY. SOMETHING.

"Uh, I didn't do that."

Great. Excellent. How incredibly eloquent. Of ALL the ways I could have possibly phrased that, I picked by far the most idiotic. She looked back at me, her eyebrows cocked as if to say, "sure you didn't, buddy," and I moved on, leaving her to her cruel fate.

Fucking old ladies.

After that portion of the trip, I had a stop-over in Dallas for roughly an hour. The airport there was an absolute disaster. Flight delays, cancellations, gate changes and over-bookings had thrown the terminal into chaos. Massive crowds of frustrated, confused, middle America normal people were clustering around every gate in various states of travel panic. I made it to my gate just in time to be informed that it had been suddenly changed, and myself and the couple hundred other people waiting to board flight 2633 now needed to walk roughly eight hundred miles to a different terminal. This announcement was met with a cacophony of groaning and complaining, as everyone grudgingly stood up and gathered their belongings for the trek to terminal C. And during the walk over there, something amazing happened.

While making my way through the long pathway, alongside a couple dozen huffing and puffing overweight tourists, one of those airport tram vehicles rode up alongside me. Those little passenger cars that zip around from gate to gate, transporting anyone too fat or old or handicapped to get from point A to point B by way of their own two feet. It was filled with about six or seven old ladies, all of whom had silly, vacant grins across their wrinkled faces, as if this fun little tram ride was the greatest adventure they'd experienced in a very long time. The tram made its way past me, slowed a bit by the heavy foot traffic, and as it reached a narrow bend in the passageway, it came to an abrupt stop, jolting the elderly women a bit. Replacing their glee with confusion. As I rounded the corner I saw the problem: Another tram, this one heavily stocked with fat women, was coming around the corner from the opposite direction, and the two had nearly collided head-on. Now they were both stopped, about six feet away from each other, It was a good old fashioned show-down: The old ladies versus the fat ladies. And neither of them were going to budge.

This is where it got really good. I was already late for my connecting flight, but I had to stop and see how this was going to pan out. The drivers of each tram were both some variety of middle-eastern ethnicity, and they started shouting and gesturing at each other to back away. Neither car budged. Then they began full-on yelling at each other in some indiscernible, furiously-paced foreign language. It was almost as if the two airport employees were bitter rivals, and neither was willing to compromise in this intense situation. It was like a microcosm of mid-east tensions, right here in Dallas, in the walkway between terminal A and terminal C. The old ladies and the fat ladies were exchanging nervous glances at each other, unsure of what to do. The shouting grew louder. People were stopping and staring. Then, the drivers' argument suddenly gave way to a very uncomfortable silence, as they both just stared at each other, bitterly. I thought Jihad was about to be declared. I thought they were about to leap at each other and stab at each others' throats with pencils. But both trams began inching slowly forward, as both drivers turned their steering wheels hard to the right. The vehicles turned as they moved forward, avoiding impact by mere inches. The two drivers never took their eyes off each other as they went by. The old ladies looked apologetically at the fat ladies, and vice versa. And when the trams were a safe distance apart, each sped away from each other at a determined pace. It seemed that Jihad had been avoided, and the fragile peace at Dallas-Ft. Worth had held together... at least for now.