I remember sitting around the TV on Saturday nights when my parents and I would watch Saturday Night Live. In later years, we would watch the SNL re-runs that came on E! and proceed to quote them for the rest of the week. One of my favorite people on SNL was Phil Hartman because his humor was smart and understated.
I’m sitting on the plane getting ready to take off for Baltimore for wedding number two this weekend. I highly suspect that the baby in front of me shat himself before boarding the plane and the parents were simply too lazy to change him. So now it smells like baby shit. Yay.
Now there are two small brown hands peeking out from the seat in front of me. Part of me really wants to touch one of the hands to see what it does. Maybe it’ll be like my cat with his paw under the bathroom door swatting desperately at the air for more contact. Or maybe the hands will recoil and a squeal will emerge from the creature in front of me. Perhaps he’ll peek one of his little eyes through the crack between the seats. I really want to mess with this kid because he keeps banging into the seat and shaking the tray table on which I am writing. Plus he smells like shit.