Nous avons tous de merveilleuses rencontres à notre actif. Certains d’entre nous ayant même fait la rencontre de leur vie en avion, aux aléas de la vie. Mias quand Rich Wisken, un australien monsieur tout le monde, prend l’avion, trop heureux de pouvoir faire une nouvelle rencontre. Il finira d’âtre bouleversé qu’il tint à en faire part à la compagnie Jetsar.
Le chasseur de Buzz c’est procuré l’intégralité de la dite lettre, et de sa traduction. Nous laissons le soin à chacun d’entre vous de faire la part entre l’ignominie du personnage et son humour.
« Aimez-vous les énigmes ? […] Qu’est-ce qui pèse plus qu’une Suzuki Switf, moins qu’un Hummer et sent l’anus en décomposition d’un sans-abri décédé ? Aucune idée ? […] Qu’est-ce qui est foutrement gras et pue la merde et devrait acheter deux sièges sur un vol Jetstar ? C’est l’homme à côté duquel sous lequel je me suis assis, lors de mon vol de Perth à Sydney, hier.
<img class="aligncenter wp-image-8608" title="obese_avion" alt="obese_avion" src="http://www.chasseurdebuzz.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/01/obese-avion.jpg" width="456" height="250" />
Je fus soudain distrait par ce qui semblait être un bébé hippopotame situé à mi-chemin dans l’allée. Comme je m’approchais, j’ai été soulagé de voir que ce n’était pas un mammifère semi-aquatique africain dangereux, mais un être humain souffrant d’obésité morbide. Toutefois, ce soulagement fut de courte durée quand j’ai réalisé que mon siège était situé quelque part en dessous de lui […]. Son odeur avait des relents de fromage bleu et d’un bidonville de Mumbai, avec des nuances de chair en sueur et d’excréments humains pulvérisés d’eau de Cologne […]. Considérant que j’étais visiblement sous la contrainte, j’ai trouvé étrange qu’aucun membre de l’équipage ne m’ait offert un autre siège.
Je suis retourné auprès de Jabba le Hutt et j’ai passé le restant du vol étouffé contre son sideboob et sa cellulite, prenant des respirations profondes pour éviter les intoxications au gaz nocif.
Je veux être indemnisé pour la douleur physique et la souffrance morale causées par le fait d’avoir été enveloppé dans de la graisse humaine pendant quatre heures. Mon bas du dos est à l’agonie et j’ai dû taper cette lettre avec une main. Je suis encore à essayer de retrouver la pleine utilisation de mon côté gauche. Si je ne récupère pas complètement, je dois dire au revoir à mon rêve de devenir champion du monde d’air guitar. Si cela se produit, vous devrez payer. »
Dans le texte en original :
Dear Jetstar…
Do you like riddles? I do, that’s why I’m starting this letter with one. What weighs more than a Suzuki Swift, less than a Hummer and smells like the decaying anus of a deceased homeless man? No idea? How about, what measures food portions in kilograms and has the personal hygiene of a French prostitute? Still nothing? Right, one more try. What’s fat as f***, stinks like shit and should be forced to purchase two seats on a Jetstar flight? That’s right, it’s the man I sat next to under on my flight from Perth to Sydney yesterday.
As I boarded the plane, I mentally high-fived myself for paying the additional $25 for an emergency seat. I was imagining all that extra room, when I was suddenly distracted by what appeared to be an infant hippopotamus located halfway down the aisle.
As I got closer, I was relieved to see that it wasn’t a dangerous semi-aquatic African mammal, but a morbidly obese human being. However, this relief was short-lived when I realised that my seat was located somewhere underneath him.
Soon after I managed to burrow into my seat, I caught what was to be the first of numerous fetid whiffs of body odour. His scent possessed hints of blue cheese and Mumbai slum, with nuances of sweaty flesh and human faeces sprayed with cologne – Eau No.
Considering I was visibly under duress, I found it strange that none of the cabin crew offered me another seat. To be fair, it’s entirely possible that none of them actually saw me. Perhaps this photo will jog their memories.
Pinned to my seat by a fleshy boulder, I started preparing for a 127 Hours-like escape. Thankfully though, the beast moved slightly to his left, which allowed me to stand up, walk to the back of the plane and politely ask the cabin crew to be seated elsewhere. I didn’t catch the names of the three flight attendants, but for the purpose of this letter, I’ll call them: Chatty 1, Chatty 2 and Giggly (I’ve given them all the same surname – Couldnotgiveash***).
After my request, Chatty 1 and Chatty 2 continued their conversation, presumably about how s*** they are at their jobs, and Giggly, well, she just giggled. I then asked if I could sit in one of the six vacant seats at the back of the aircraft, to which Giggly responded, « hehehe, they’re for crew only, hehehe ». I think Giggly may be suffering from some form of mental impairment.
I tried to relocate myself without the assistance of the Couldnotgiveas*** triplets, but unfortunately everyone with a row to themselves was now lying down. It was then I realised that my fate was sealed. I made my way back to Jabba the Hutt and spent the remainder of the flight smothered in side-boob and cellulite, taking shallow breaths to avoid noxious gas poisoning. Just before landing,
I revisited the back of the plane to use the toilet. You could imagine my surprise when I saw both « crew only » rows occupied by non-crew members. I can only assume Giggly let them sit there after she forgot who she was and why she’s flying on a big, shiny metal thing in the sky.
Imagine going out for dinner and a movie, only to have your night ruined by a fat mess who eats half your meal then blocks 50% of the screen. Isn’t that exactly the same as having someone who can’t control their calorie intake occupying half your seat on a flight? Of course it is, so that’s why I’m demanding a full refund of my ticket, including the $25 for an emergency row seat.
I’m also looking to be compensated for the physical pain and mental suffering caused by being enveloped in human blubber for four hours. My lower back is in agony and I had to type this letter one-handed as I’m yet to regain full use of my left side. If I don’t recover completely, I’ll have to say goodbye to my lifelong dream of becoming Air Guitar World Champion. If that occurs, you will pay.
To discuss my generous compensation package, email me at: [email protected], or tweet me at: @RichWisken
No regards,
Rich Wisken.
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