Moron of the Month - December 2010

It's this guy. 

Yeah, I don't expect you to know who he is or even discern features from this quick and dirty photo I snapped on Tuesday at American Airlines Baggage Claim in LAX.  But, trust me.  He is a moron worthy of this month's award.  The epitome of classlessness.  I wish I had his name because I would load it all over the internet, so that, when this jerk needs an ego boost and Googles his name, this blog entry is the first thing that pops up in his search.

Alas, I don't have his name.  So, for the purposes of this story, let me use every bit of political incorrectness in my body and name him.  Even better.  Let's pretend it's really December 16, 1941 and my nickname for him is totally justified.

Dumb Jap Bastard.

Yeah, I know.  That's harsh.  I don't flippin' care.

Even you ever see this guy boarding a plane with you, please go back to Check-In and opt for the later flight.  Immediately.  Because you don't want to run the risk of being seated anywhere adjacent to this shithead. 

Unfortunately, I was.  In 24B on Flight 117 from New York to Los Angeles.  He was in 24A.  A nasty, nasty roll of my dice.  First, Pearl Harbor.  Now me.  In the last ten or so years racking up over one million miles on American Airlines, I have had my share of less than personable seat mates.  This guy, however, was the ultimate test hands down.

You know you've got a problem when he first shows up.  On his way down the aisle to 24A, he knocked three different people in the head with his computer bag.  And just kept going.  When the last person actually registered a note of displeasure as a result of his Samsonite collision, Dumb Jap Bastard muttered some broken English as an apology.  I shuddered as he approached my row.  I implored to God.

Please not here.  Please not here.  Please not here.  Please not here.

He threw his baggage onto the seat next to me.  Here.  I silently renounced my faith.

Dumb Jap Bastard knocked his way into the seat next to the window as if he was on the Chicago Black Hawks and he was fighting for a puck in the corner.  There was no thought that there was anybody remotely near him.  He plopped down and then started to pull his jacket off.  And promptly popped me in the head with his elbow.  Again, a muffled and incoherent apology.

Moments later as we awaited takeoff, Dumb Jap Bastard pulled out his cell phone and made a call.  Suddenly, he is chatting away in perfect English. 

Uh huh.  One of Len's standard rules of life validated again.  Whenever you see an Asian who pretends they don't understand what you are saying to them, they really do.  It's a complete act.  Watch in your own worlds and tell me if you don't see the same thing.  But, I digress...

Once aloft, Dumb Jap Bastard really got down to the business of being completely annoying.  Window up, window down, window up, window down.  Repeatedly over a five minute period.  Then the overhead light.  On, off, on, off, on, off.  Repeatedly over a five minute period.  A nervous flyer or perhaps a technician for American Airlines?  Whatever the case, he was getting on my nerves.

It was time to check out the magazine pouch.  American Way open, American Way closed, American Way open, American Way closed.  Was he perhaps trying to memorize an article for recitation?  Did he think the articles changed every ten minutes?  Whatever the case, the people around me were now starting to notice.  And I looked at them all helplessly and sadly.  Hoping to convey the silent message.

He's not with me.

Somewhere over Ohio, Dumb Jap Bastard figured it was time for a nap.  At least, the window shade, the overhead light, and the magazine pouch would get a rest.  As I watched a movie on my portable DVD player with Bose headphones on,  I suddenly noticed a foul smell on my left shoulder.

Dumb Jap Bastard was asleep.  Mere inches away from my face.  Mouth totally agape.  Hmmm.  Did we have some bad sashimi for lunch at the JFK lounge?  Because that's sort of what it smells like.  He eats rotten sushi and I'm the one who might throw up?  Where was the logic in this?  A well-placed elbow in the ribs turned Dumb Jap Bastard in the other direction. 

The beauty rest didn't last long.  Nope, it was now time to pull out his computer and watch a movie.  Something with Japanese emperors, warriors, and warlords.  How do I know this much?  Well, Dumb Jap Bastard violated a cardinal rule of air travel.  He was watching something without headphones or ear buds.  All around me, I heard the dreaded groans from the adjacent passengers.

I SWEAR, FOLKS!  HE'S NOT WITH ME!!

Or so my sad eyes tried to tell them.

News of my plight had traveled all over the aircraft.  When I walked to the back of the plane for a bathroom visit and some much needed civility, my flight attendant interceded.

"You're having a tough time with him."

A friend indeed.  She had noticed, too.  I wanted to make out with her immediately.  I explained that, in all my years, he had to be the worst traveling companion.  She acknowledged that he appeared to be a little fidgety.

"Fidgety?  A ten year-old with ADD and an empty vial of Ritalin is fidgety.  This guy's just an asshole." 

She laughed heartily and even offered me anything in the liquor cart.  On the house.  I declined.  This may be exactly how alcoholism starts.

I went back to my seat for more medicine.  Dumb Jap Bastard had grown weary of the samurai movie.  It was back to the window shade examination.  Up, down, up, down.  And the yawns. 

Not your average yawn.  It was more like the wail of a wounded animal.  Frequently and he kept doing it throughout the rest of the flight.  Those around me probably started to worry.  Was that a moose call?  Had we been diverted over Canada?

On the second beverage run, my girlfriend/flight attendant tried to help.  She asked Dumb Jap Bastard if he was okay.  This was a useless query, because he retreated to his "non-English-speaking" mode.  Well, at least, she tried.  And he did try to find me a different seat.  This would have made little difference.  No matter where I would be on that plane, I would still be seeing the flickering of the overhead lamp and the incessant opening and closing of daylight through the window.  And, of course, the yawns could be heard by the people on the flight that left JFK an hour behind our plane.

The remainder of the trip continued to be a potpourri of pestiness.  Most of the time, he was violating my personal space and kept poking me in a variety of places.  I popped Flight Tracker.com up on my computer.  How close were we to LAX and a life without this man?

Eventually, it ended.  And I needed to document it all with the photo above.  The flash bulb got his attention and he looked at me with disdain.  My luggage was already in tow, so I needed to give him a quick parting shot.  One that is easily translated in any language.

I flipped him the finger.  Sayonara.  And fuck you.

Dinner last night:  Turkey burger at BJs.