your seat cushion doubles as a floatation device.

Dear i+i:

I was on a flight recently and – there’s no delicate way to say this – my seatmate smelled. Very strongly. The flight was full, so I couldn’t move, but if this happens on a flight with open seats, is there a polite way to move away from the offending passenger? – Stink Bomb in 7C

Ian here. I hear you, SB7C. I do.

Few experiences are more discomforting than being wedged into a seat next to somebody whose hobbies included reeking. Almost no experiences, really. Like in the whole of human endeavor. The hierarchy is about like so:

1. Auschwitz.
2. Stink Flight.
3. Abu Ghraib.
4. The Grammies.
5. The set of a snuff film.
6. Dinner with Wally from Marketing.
7. Cambodia’s killing fields.
8.  Arby’s.
9. Sitting next to one of those snot-whistlers at the movies.
10. The taste of Willy Nelson’s ear hair.

And, yes. In this order.

As you can see, for an experience to rank (pun fully intended – ZING to you, Stinky!) as being LESS pleasant than logging time in a fucking Arby’s, it has go to be pretty desperate and extreme in its degree of grisliness.

So you’re right. It’s a problem. A foul-smelling problem that robs you of your already tenuous will to live. Which presents the most effective solution – when the “Fasten Seatbelts” light is turned off, head back to the bathroom and kill yourself. Failing that, you are pretty well stuck. Stewing in the curry-and-sunbaked-mayo-in-a-bucket-of-curdled-kefir funk wafting out of the pits on this bag of shit next to you. And if he’s a fat-ass, then you’re taking a double hit from his Auxiliary Marsupial Pits (AMP) he’s got stuffed in the front of them mustard-streaked Dockers he’s got on. For the uninitiated, AMPs are the yeasty flesh-caves in the dank and musky crotch region of the overweight and underwashed. AMPs are so bacteria-rich, they make a truck stop toilet seat look like a fucking OR. You know that heroin suppository bathroom in Trainspotting? Auxiliary Marsupial Pits ASPIRE to that degree of cleanliness – the fucking Trainspotting bathroom looks like the sun-drenched world of a Lysol commercial next to the sweat-caked horrors to be found inside of AMPs, dude.

Say the guy’s like 80-100 pounds overweight. Like 45% of that body mass is mashed into the damp miasma of nerd-meat between his thighs and the trapezoidal gut-hammock that sways above the remote memory of his junk. This meat-cowl is so acrid, so bio-toxic, that it generates its own form of tacky Cheetos® dust. And believe me: if you get that shit on your finger, you may be able roll some into pebbles and flick it away, but you are never, and I mean NEVER getting it completely off. It's like finger herpes, man - you can manage it, maybe, but you are living with that shit forever.

To give an effective sponge bath to a guy like this, you’d need a soapy beach towel wrapped around a pool cue, and there’s still no guarantee you could work it all the way in – it’s a lot like spelunking in there: you can get wedged in an die. It is a treacherous, salty, quivering, broiling fucking nightmare down in there. It's like if you took the fallen finger of a leper, covered it in sweat-soaked navel lint, doused it in rancid corn oil, rolled it in malaria, sauteed it in ear wax, dipped in the crud you scrape out from between the plates of an armadillo, bathed it in the nut-sweat of a minotaur, tucked it in pouch made of hobo neck wattles, slow-roasted it over a dog turd fire, and drizzled it with ground mummy, that begins to approximate a truly ripe Auxiliary Marsupial Pit bouquet.

But this is only one kind human stink, and I don't wish to assume anything.

There's the Eau de Meth Cadaver, which is a combo of night terrors, ground-off tooth enamel, coma mouth, the scrapings off a sewer pipe, the piss of a traumatized terrier, cumin, and the well-used grease from the funnel cake concession at the carnival. Oh, and crushed dreams.

There's also the Death's Door Potpourri, which is baby powder, witch hazel, chemo puke, overdue cat box, overcooked pork chop, the yarn aisle at Hancock Fabrics®, orthopedic shoe, and lentils.

There's the Twat Farm, which is menstrual blood, panic attack, Cinnamon Toast Crunch®, Viking mustache, and scabies. And the "How to Meet Someone" section of the bookstore.

And let's not forget the Hormone Gorgon, which is Laffy Taffy®, man cave, locker room carpet, unfulfilled longing, nail clippings of philosophy doctoral candidates, hot soft pretzels, and asiago cheese.

Or the Flight of the Couch Dragon, which is rubber cement, a mother's tears, ossified porridge, ham fat, the territory-marking urine of a civet, and guava Lip Smacker® Lip Balm. Oh, and failure.

Or Slytherin Prefect, which is bay rum, oboe spit, wet wool, dimly remembered Arthurian legend, nail polish remover, blocked cock, 20-sided dice, and the juice of half a quince.

Or the Primate House, which is pickle brine, frat boy boxer briefs (worn the full three days one way, turned inside out and worn three more days, in summer, in Manila), waxed hooker, bath mat, Jager spill, and frozen waffle. And the unique form of boredom that can only come of getting everything you want all the goddamn time.

Or the Patchouli Rape, which is burnt sage, the neck-nape of that fucking barefoot asshole juggling devil sticks in the park, tamari, ferret muzzle, pear brandy, dream catcher net, and towering loneliness.

Or the Gordon Gecko, which is used Axe Body Spray® (any variety, because to pretend that any one of them smells any different than any of the others), orphan snot, spa drain, loafer tassel, widow bits, cider vinegar, pre-cancerous mole, escort dander, and sulphur.

Or the dude could just have been wearing Drakkar Noir.

Point is: you only got two options when confronted by these or any one of a thousand other forms of people stank: kill yourself or shove the offender out the emergency hatch and suck everybody out of the cabin while hurtling through the air at 30,000 feet. If you fail to carry out either option, then that's on you, you fucking coward.