Hi-Jacked Blog

This is Bud E. Phat and Elsa Lioness.
Ms. Tastrophie is sh*t-faced flat down on the bed in a NyQuil induced coma trying to cure another nasty cold. Being the loving pets that we are, we decided that revenge is best served when one is passed out cold. So we have jacked the computer for some sweet payback.

After purchasing a lifetime subscription to Live Nude Cats (http://www.livenudecats.com/ ) and finding a few new friends (http://www.catster.com/)who were willing to send us some premium grade kittty-nip, we have decided to spill the Whiskas on Ms. Tastrophie. Of course she probably will sell us down the river when that box from PlayPet arrives C.O.D. Who knew that a little feathers and fuzz could cost so much? Good thing this woman had a few coin hidden in the cabinet.

Now, here's where you come in. Send us your questions, inquiries and twisted photo requests and we will kitty up the goods. Trust us, that girl ain't getting out of that bed anytime soon. We mixed the xanax with the NyQuil and she hasn't seen the light for the past two days. We're thinking if we can work this right, we can spill the beans, and get the packages hidden before she realizes that we figured out human technology.*

So what do you want to know?

P.s. Wizard Cat ~ WE LUV U!!
P.s.s. Fernando ~ You had us at "Oink"

*Cause really people? What the hell do you think we do all day when you are away? Sleep? Chase mice? Yea, right. Check your cable bill. Those $3.99 movie rentals you been blaming on the kids? The "good" cheese that keeps disappearing from the fridge? Those internet sites you pretend you don't go to? We know.

Redemption in The Eye of The Pit

I just finished watching one of the most gut wrenching programs I have ever seen (and I watch ALOT of TV).  It was about Michael Vick and his dog fighting ring.  (I know, this is old news, and yes, I followed it when it was happening, but this story was on the animals.)  I was so upset watching it, that I actually was sick to my stomach!!  I personally hope Michael Vick rots in hell and has become the little bitch for every Arian-Brotherhood-Loving prisoner on his cell block. 

I was horrified to watch as these dogs were forced to fight each other for the entertainment and profit of their owners!  And if the dog lost, it was killed.  Not humanly euthanized.  KILLED.  Some were hung from trees, others beaten to death, others left to die from the injuries they experienced in the fighting ring.  Hell, if a grown man want to put on gloves and get into the ring in order to beat the living shit out of another other so that they can be punch-drunk later in life: more power to him.  He knows what he is getting into and the risks involved.  These dogs fought - not because they are solely bred to be mean, but because they have an inherent need to PLEASE their owners!  You could actually hear the owners saying "Good Boy/Good Girl" to their dogs on the videos.  

Now, I know Pit Bulls* are scary looking dogs.  Often fighting dog owners crop the dog's ears and bulk up the dog in order to have a meaner looking animal.  Fighting dogs endure months, even years of abuse in the name of "training" in order to make them vicious.  At times, I did not know which was worse: the fighting videos or the videos of the training and captivity of the dogs.  The breeds of dogs used in these fights have been given (and some have earned) a reputation as being aggressive.  I know that people have died from attacks by pit bulls, rottweillers and wolf hybrid breeds.  I am not saying that doesn't happen. Personally, I blame careless breeders and owners who line-breed or trait-breed in order to create more aggressive fighting dogs.  What the hell are these people thinking?  I can't find a single reason WHY this sport made it out of the colosseum and into modern day culture.  

There are those who say the breeds should be banned.  That it is in their nature to be aggressive.  I don't believe that, especially after watching what happened to these dogs after they were confiscated.  I can't advocate the extermination of a species based on a few "bad apples".  That argument didn't work for the Eugenics movement or The Nazis and I don't think it holds water for taking out a dog breed.  But that is not the point of this blog.  

What amazed me about the dogs involved in the Michael (rot in hell you scum sucking pig) Vick case was that with the exception of two of the dogs, who had to be euthanized for health reasons, ALL of the dogs were rehabilitated and placed in homes or rescue agencies!!!  One even works as a therapy dog with the elderly!  I was moved to tears by the sight of dogs who were once trained to fight to the death, giving unconditional love to another human being. Puppies and adult dogs playing, fetching balls, running with their new owners, and giving kisses in return for good belly rubs like normal companion pets.  I found it interesting that a soul with every reason to HATE based on the inhumane treatment it had experienced until that time in its life, could learn to forgive and love those very creatures who had shown it no mercy.  

Ms. Tastrophie has to wonder about the world in which she lives.  Apparently we are not as evolved as we would like to think we are.  If we have learned to hate one another based on a skin color, job description, or religious affiliation, how can we claim to be above one who can't even hold a fork?  Yeah, I am being a hypocrite by saying I hope Michael Vick gets @$$-pounded in prison for his part in all this and I know that some will never think that the breed is redeemable, no matter what anyone says.   For me, watching those dogs find a new leash in life was enough to restore some of my faith in man-kind (even a very little for Michael Vick ~ who really does deserve to rot in some level of hell).  

So my thought is this:  Who knew that the key to man-kind's redemption could be found in the heart of a once trained killer?

*The pit bull is a type of dog bred for fighting, not a specific breed. Responsibly bred and owned, the American Staffordshire Terrier and the Staffordshire Bull Terrier -- often referred to as pit bulls -- are not fighting dogs.

Where Are MY Students

And who are these well-behaved kids sitting in their desks???

...In case you think that all Ms. Lisa-tastrophie can do is b@tch about how awful things are and that her coworker is the non-cartoon version of Yosemite Sam.**  Let me share this shocker with you...

With the exception of an incident on Monday:  This week has been WONDERFUL!!!!!  The kids have behaved. No one has back-talked me (more than the required amount to save face in front of their peers). No one has peed on or in anything that wasn't the proper receptacle.  No one threw anything or tried to make a 3-point shot from half-class.  And only one student has been hauled off to jail this week (and he wasn't one of mine).  Oh Happy, Happy Day!

Of course, there might be some other reasons behind this perfect world.  Like, Yosemite Sam has been out all week and may not be back until next week (while I don't wish him any ill-will: dare to dream).  Or that the kids are exhausted from having to take the school district's equivalent of an LSAT exam...in EVERY subject, all day long, for three days in a row.  GAWD bless the inventor of the scan-tron form.  Cause, you know I would be a-b@tchin' about having to grade those things.

I however, prefer to indulge myself and believe that it is my superior classroom management and relationship building skills that have incited this pre-apocalyptic change in behavior.  Of course, we all know how delusional Ms. Tastrophie can be when she is hyped up on Ho-ho's and the thought of 20 NEW episodes of The Girl's Next Door.

I just thought I would share this positive teaching moment because, if the forecast from the other teachers is correct, there's a storm brewing and the four horsemen will be riding hard when it comes***....

**Don't worry.  More tales of him are coming.  He's just too much NOT to write about :-)

*** Hell, yes, I will post about that.  I would never leave my loyal readers (all four of you, bless you all) hanging in suspense.

Breakin' Da Law

OK, we have all worked with someone at least once in our lives that we felt was the world's biggest blow-hard... 

Or is it just me? Because I seem to attract this jerk~off at my jobs.  If there is some asshat who HAS to go by the red-letter law of every rule/policy/procedure of the company, my boss is going to team him/her with me.  It's this giant karmic employment ass-kicking that I keep getting.  I am beginning to think that in my past life I must have stomped baby chickens for a living because I KNOW I haven't done anything in this life to reap this little piece of joy.

My co-teacher, hereafter to be referred to as Rebel with No Clue (RNC), has this thing about following every rule to the 10th degree.  Unless that rule is deemed stupid and "unlawful" by RNC in all his infinite wisdom and then I get to listen to why it is wrong and how he is going to make "The Man" see the error of his ways.  I can't tell you how many times he has "informed" me that someone is wrong and the policy states blah, blah, blah...  Usually he is trying to tell me that I am wrong.  Which of course make me HATE him more than any of the other crap he pulls.  (But you can read about that fun when I finally retire and publish my memoirs of teaching kids suffering from "punkitis".  By then I will be able to afford to change my name and move to another state.) Back to RNC's latest By-The-Book adventure.

Last week my boss tells me that to do X, I can do steps A-B or C.  To which RNC goes ape-shit nuts and tells me he (Boss Man) can't do that.  I inform RNC that if Boss Man tells me to stand on my head and whistle zippity-doo-dah out my ass, I'm pretty much going to do it...because Boss Man is (DUH) my BOSS and HE signs my paycheck and until RNC ponies up the big bucks in my bank account RNC can shut the F* up.  Now I was using this as a generic example to make the point that I work for Boss Man, not Rebel with No Clue.  RNC however misses the point by a MILE!!!  He starts telling me that Boss Man can't tell me to stand on my head and whistle zippyity-do-dah out my ass because policy says that Boss Man can't make me do anything degrading, blah, blah, blah.  I walk away and go make copies of my class assignments because had I stayed the desire to put the smack down on Clueless would have won and I would be telling you about my new found unemployment status instead.

So, I am walking back to the class and RNC comes rapidly walking towards me with this look on his face like some one just pissed in his Wheaties.  

RNC:  "Can I ask you a serious question?" 

ME: "yeah, what is it"  Now I am thinking he is going to ask me if I like working with him (Hell No) or if his feet stink (don't ask) or something even worse like if I wanted to go out with him on Friday night.  But this is what he asks:

RNC:  "If you had been one of the guards at Abu Graib prison, would you have followed orders to torture those prisoners, even though you knew it was wrong?"

OMG!!!!  "You've got to be fucking kidding me!"* (Thank you MJenks)  THAT IS YOUR SERIOUS QUESTION!!!!  Seriously!!!!

After several deep breaths, in which I envision not having to work with this jerk next year, I answer him.  No dumb-ass.  I know the difference between being told to do something that is right and something that will endanger the lives of the children I am entrusted to teach.  Not to mention this that little argument of "just following orders" doesn't have the best track record - just ask the Nazi's at Nuremberg or the guards from Abu Graib.  Again, RNC completely misses the point and begins rambling on about "lawful orders"...

I walked back to my desk, pulled out my stash of Ho-ho's and started shoveling them into my mouth as fast as I could.  To which RNC begins to tell me the district policy on eating chocolate in front of or giving chocolate to students. (BTW the students were not in the classroom at the time.)  Lord, Help me Jesus cause I am going to have to kill this man if they take away my Ho-ho's or if he quotes one more chapter/verse of the policy/procedures manual.  

So, does anyone else have to work with asshats like Rebel with No Clue?  Or is it just a small hell saved only for me?  

I Dreamed A Little Dream...

and today I watched it die.

I am a freshman teacher.  I started this job as a lowly substitute and worked my way up to a full-fledged, first year teacher complete with my semi-own classroom.  I say semi-owned because I co-teach with another person who ~trust me on this one~ will occupy SEVERAL chapters in the book I am going to write about this when I retire.  (I still have to see if they will publish a memoir with a chapter called "Why I almost lost my teaching certification by killing my co-teacher in the first six weeks".)  But I digress. 

I entered this field with a dream: The dream that I would change the life of every student I taught.  That I would inspire in him/her maybe not a desire to learn, but at least a desire to be more than they dared to dream for themselves.  I would make a difference.  I had dreams of seeing my students years after they would leave my middle school classroom and they would have become more than the "punk-kid" who got sent to an alternative school.  Doctors. Lawyers.  Architects.  Analysts.  Writers.  Whatever they could conceive (other than a baby at age 14); they could be.  

I talked about my dream to any teacher who would listen.  And I was warned.  Veteran teachers told me it could not be done.  That I would learn that there are some kids you just can not get through to or teach.  They said my heart would break if I got personally involved.  They would sigh and get a knowing, sad smile on their face as they suffered my foolish fantasies.  Like an old man who can still remember when he was young and thinks to himself of a youth so long ago.  Still I talked and dreamed...

Today I sat in the restroom and cried.  I realized my dream was dying right in front of my eyes... and death wears the face of my very first student.  The pupil who was to be my defining accomplishment.  My pride.  My proof to the pedagogical society that ALL students could be reached and taught.  He was to become more than the gang he so desperately wants to join.  Somewhere deep inside I knew I was going to have to learn this lesson, but I had hoped it would be later.  Not now.  Not with the first child to sit in my classroom.  Not with angelic face of a child who carries the emotional scars of an abused 50 year old.

But I will not give in.  I will not allow my dream to go quietly into this good night.  I will fight.  If not for him, for the ones that will come after him and the ones that will go on to win the good fight.  I will go on so that one day, if only for one student, I will have made a difference.

Get Your Drink On... While You Still Can

I was driving home when I got the panicked voice mail from my best diving buddy KK (who is also a fellow Margarita enthusiast).  She was gasping for air and I couldn't quite make out what she was saying.  It sounded a little like:  "AAAAAAAA ....shortage.... tequila.... must.... get.... more.... not... going... to.... make... it... send... reinforcements."  

Did you'all hear this?  Several news sources announced last week that because Mexican farmers have raced to plant more corn in response to the growing demands of ethanol makers, we may experience a Tequila shortage in the near future.  Holy Shit Drinkman!!! That announcement sent me on an all night tequila-fest bender which ended in my singing a slightly (ok, really off-key) off-key rendition of Shelly West's beloved ballad "Jose Cuervo You Are A Friend of Mine" and my cats pleading for sanctuary (or at least earplugs) on the steps of St. Sauza and the Sacred Shot Glass.  The next day armed with a killer hang-over, the feeling of a fuzzy sock in my mouth, dark sun glasses and a fist full of Benjamins, I cleaned out the local liquor store of every rot-gut-brand Tequila I could find (and one bottle of some really expensive shit I can't pronounce just cause the label was cute).  

Now I am all for alternative fuels and lowering our dependance on oil, but when you are standing between me and getting my drink on... Well, you have gone way to far.  I don't know who I am going to have to "have a little talkin' to" about this miss direction of our priorities, but you had better believe I am writing a strongly worded letter to the Mexican government asking them to intervene. 

As for the U.S.A., we got 10 states that produce corn.  That's 1/5th of the country.  Two of which I have personally lived in and can attest to the fact that there really isn't much there BUT corn. SOOOO its time to step up and boost that corn production.  I don't care if you have to spray on every pesticide, insecticide, herbicide within a tri-state area while planting every genetically altered strain of seed known to man in order to meet the demands.  Just get your plant on and let the country of Mexico get back to doing what they do best:  Creating a drink that makes me think that the guy with four missing teeth and a belly bigger than Buddha is cuter than a bucket of kittens at closin' time.  

Kill Bill

Or To Mute Or Not To Mute

In my past life I was a "consultant".  Which translates into: If you aren't a part of the problem, you can make a shit load of money prolonging the problem with bullshit "solutions" that will cause even bigger, more complicated problems and make other people's lives a living hell.  

At some point in time I decided that being on the outer level of Dante's inferno wasn't as much fun as being IN Dante's most inner circle of Hell and made the leap to an in-house Analyst position.  Translation: I was now the poor SOB who's life was made a living hell by consultants.  Yeah, I never said I made smart career moves.

One of the things I learned about corporate America is "THE MEETING".  The Meeting is code for: we are going to either sit in a conference room or sit on the phone and listen while someone from management either:

a) Tries to get us to drink the Kool-aid and think that whatever Bull-shit idea he/she is presenting is going to be the orgasmic life changing event they say it will be.

Or

b) Shows us just how long a person can hold on to their will to live while being shown endless power points before jumping out of the 3rd floor window. (Which BTW is just high enough to cause some major damage, but not high enough to kill you.  And you had better believe that my Satan-run former employer would have brought me a laptop and asked me to work on shit while I was being wheeled into the ICU.)

Anyway, I had to attend a big meeting one day with the "vendor/consultant/pain in my ass".  This meeting included several members of my team and  since we were all feeling especially lazy that day everyone dialed in from their own desk.  (Instead of getting our fat-asses up and walking to the conference room to do the one speaker phone call.  Our little passive-aggressive way of sticking it to "The Man" and his pocketbook.)  Since I worked in cube-ville not only could everyone hear me on their phones, but the sound of my voice in real time as well.  

The best part of the meeting was that I was now the "Client" and not the vendor, which really saved my bacon.  During the call, Mr. Pain~in~My~Ass~Consultant (we'll call him Bill) was going on and on and on and on and on about something that was going to make my life seem like it was going to go on and on and on and on.  Not to mention that "Bill" had a way of being condescending to even a post-it note and talked to you as though you had never heard the word college, let alone graduated from one.  So, after about ten minutes of "Bill" talking and my nerves being shredded, I clicked what I thought was the code for muting the phone... and said "I AM GOING TO KILL HIM!!!!".

Only, muting the phone had about a ten second delay.  Just long enough for my homicidal feelings to cross the sound barrier and the inter-state phone lines.  Now, my boss couldn't hear me ask for a raise when I was standing two feet from her, but you can bet your sweet ass she heard THAT comment.  After some really quick back stepping and some incredible Bullshit that even I am amazed I pulled out of a hat, the meeting concluded.  I quickly checked my insurance policy to see if they covered "Foot-in-Mouth" disease and any injuries that I could incur while being  incarcerated. Later I got to have a nice little "chat" with my supervisor about "appropriate" talk which included something about playing nice with other kids and how I should monitor my "inner voice" a little better.  

But we all know how well that has worked in my life... :-)

Damn Good Thing They Are Cute

I love my cats dearly.  They are the cutest things I can cuddle with and have collectively cost me more than a brand new BMW.  But they are not the smartest kittens in the caboodle.  

Bud E Phat and Elsa, both love to lounge on the patio.  Which requires I leave the door open for them to enter and exit at will.  Along with a few of flying friends.  For those of you who do not know about my extreme issues with all things entomology please see http://www.lisatastrophies.com/2008/03/help-im-buggin-out.html 

So after purchasing what amounts to enough extermination chemicals to rid the entire state of anything even thinking about flying (including 747's, small birds and Green-skinned-ruby-slipper-stealing witches) I gave up and bought a screen door cover.  Only it's not a door.  I can't have a real screen door since I currently live in an apartment complex run by former Nazis and they frown on any form of home improvement.  So I got this cool screen that hangs from the top of the door frame and mimics a door.  Thank GAWD for velcro and spring loaded poles on this thing or it would have never made it out of the box.  Anyway, to get in and out, all the cats have to do is push their way through the hanging screen.  Simple enough, right. RRRIIIGGGHHHTTT...

Now I am not sure who is going to get the award for being higher on the evolutionary scale: the cats for sitting there staring at the screen for over an hour straight trying to figure out how to get inside. Or me for sitting there for an hour straight watching them watch the screen trying to figure out how to get inside.  At this point I leaning toward it being a tie.  

After three days of the Great Screen Door Stare Down and me repeatedly shoving their rotund bodies through a flimsy screen in a vain attempt to teach their cat-brains to comprehend the physics of cat-in-the-door : cat-out-the-door (I even made some rudimentary slides on the concept of inertia), I thought they were starting to get it.   

Until tonight and Elsa sitting outside the screen meowing like she was never again going to get Fancy Feast.  After about ten minutes of Meow-a-polousa I started to wonder if things were o.k.  Was she dying?  Had she gotten her tail caught on something?  Was the house on fire and she was trying to bravely save my life by alerting me to the coming danger? 

No, Miss I-hope-she-marries-well-cause-she's-dumber-than-a-box-of-rocks had forgotten how to push the screen aside so she could get back inside.  

So much for my brilliant teaching skills.

S & N

Has Nicholas been knockin' up the neighborhood?

Has Sassy been sashaying her was across the mean streets?

Heather been in heat longer than summer time in Texas?

Then it's time to step up and join the Spay & Neuter bandwagon. (I know what you all were thinking ~ and you should be ashamed :-)  That's right boys and girls; time to get those nuts knocked off and tie up some lose tube ends. Cause knowing that you can reproduce faster than Tribbles on the Starship Enterprise is not high on the Things To Be Proud Of List.  Now is the right time to stop your grinnin' and start your licking'   ~~where your balls used to be. 

It's not like Fido knows he's shootin' blanks.  And Miss Kitty is a bitch wether she is in heat or not.  Not to mention that the care and feeding of these oh~so~cute dependents will not get you a huge tax break at the end of the year.  Hell, that trip to the vet alone will cost you less than the puppy paternity suit when Boxer bones that cute poodle down the street.  Or the shame of having the most tail in the hood when Princess starts pushin' out those precious pretty kitties. So help do your part to reduce the number of feral, shelter and stray animals and try a walk on the S&N wild side...

Because if Hercules ain't hanging and banging blanks; he's just not bad to the bone.

Public Service Announcement brought to you by the good people at Bonerol.

 

Farts on a Plane!

Ok, people, I am on VAY-CAY-SIOOOOON.  Which means when I planed my vacation, I was not including in these plans to sit on a plane at 30,000 feet having my nasal cavity assaulted by an over-weight, middle-aged man's ass gas.  I was planning on drinking heavily, sitting on a beach taking my chances at skin cancer and scuba diving my butt into a border line narc'd status. I was not planning on attempting to breath through an airplane blanket for 3 hours while hoping the fumes from Fart-Man did not cause the plane to break apart.  First off there is no escape at 30,000 feet, second the oxygen masks will not deploy just because some inconsiderate jerk ate his body weight in sauerkraut the night before and has decided to gas every passenger on a 747. There is no escape.  However, there is a way to fight back.... And the best line of defense against this onslaught - believe it or not - comes dressed in Gap kids and looks suspiciously like two boys about 10 years of age (I think that is how old they were).   

Anyway, fart-ass in the third row has gas. Not just gas, but G-A-S and could probably take out a small nation with one ass-cheek tied behind his back.  It was silent kind (at first).  The kind where they let loose about five minutes before everyone's oral-factory senses could figure out what the hell just assaulted them.  These sneaky little bastards were flying around the plane for about 45 minutes. Roughly one every 5 minutes or so, before Fart-Man fell asleep.  Then the fun really began.  

Apparently, Fart-Man had been making some sort of attempt at hiding the sneaky little pops while he was awake, because once he was asleep....all bets were off.  So every so often you would hear this "pppttthhheww" in between his snoring.  This guy was a double barrel shot gun: snorts and snoring out one end ~ toots and shoots out the other.  I don't know which was worse.  

But let's face it: Farts are funny.  Even to "grown" ups farts are funny.  Oh sure, we try to do the adult thing by ignoring them.  We even pretend that our eyes are watering from some sort of allergy to dust mites or tearing up over the in-flight movie.  We delicately try to breath out of our mouths in hopes of not getting too much of the offending gas.  YEAH, that lasted 20 minutes before people started making eye contact with each other and making faces. The guy next to me was about to have an epileptic fit trying not to giggle at the insanity of the whole thing.  I mean these farts were deadly and what could we do?  It's not like we could ask the guy to go spend the rest of the flight in the john?  Although that was one idea that we tossed around after about 2 hours into the onslaught.  Hell, the captain even came out of the cockpit and asked the flight attendant what the hell died in First Class.  So grown adults spent the most part of a 4 1/2 hour flight giggling,devising ways to get Fart-Man to stop, and trying not to breath through their noses.  Someone even suggested we could get the Air Marshall to arrest Fart-Man as a terrorist since he was definitely harboring weapons of M-ASS Destruction. Comments were made as to how much was in his "ARSE-enal" and conversation pretty much went down hill from there.  Yeah, we were gas-happy at this point and all bets were off when it came to making fart jokes.  It was pretty funny (but you probably had to be there).

Now, I love it when kids say things that they really shouldn't.  And I love it even more when they say things that embarrass the living shit out of their parents.  So here we are basically being held captive by Fart-Man and his peel-the-paint-off-a-wall fart attack and there are two kids seated in the fourth row opposite Fart-Man.  At first they were all whispers and little comments to each other:

Kid1 : "EEEEEEWWWWW did you smell that?"

Kid2: "AAAWWWW That was gross!" (followed by faces of choking to death and gagging)

Kid1: "You smelt it - you dealt it!!"  (I giggled because that was a favorite from my days as a kid and it's good to see the good ones never die.) 

These and other comments were followed by ssshhhhes by Mom and Dad.  As the flight went on, the comment started to get louder and louder ~ as kids tend to do when shut in a plane for four hours without anything to occupy their time besides Fart-Man and his toot-a-thon.  Then when things really started to get bad:

Kid1: "DUDE!! (all kids speak Dude - apparently) That was gross"

Kid2: "Yeah, Dad's farts don't stink that bad and he really farts a lot"

Kid1: "OH Yeah! Remember that one time when we were in church and Dad farted really, really gross and it smelled so bad that Mom's eyes cried and Mom tried to pretend that it was the guy in front of us and Dad was all proud of his fart and Mom was really pissed and we got in trouble for making strangling noises cause Dad's farts smelled gross?"

At this point, the couple in front of Kid 1 and Kid 2 were trying to simultaneously shut their kids up and sink into the seat cushions to die of embarrassment. Althoug I think Dad was secretly proud of his de-facto win in the fart competition.  If Mom could have made a hole to disappear into by sheer will alone, she would have.  Everyone else was doing their best not to laugh but that only added to the insanity of the entire flight.  

Somewhere over the Gulf of Mexico at 30,000 feet, 24 adults lost the battle of wills against fart-man and began laughing so hard it woke up the tooting terminator.  And my vacation began with a Toot.