I hate you, LAX. I hate you in the face. The line at security was long. The bathrooms were dirty. Our plane was late. They changed the gate. Our plane was more late. We finally hit the air, which was the best part of the trip. I was seated between two nice non-smelly young women who had iPods and minded their own business. Ideal travel partners. I was able to doze, drink some orange juice, and doze. We touch down. We taxi. We get to the gate.

And wait.

And wait.

And waitandwait.

We’re all standing around like grumpy sardines in sweatpants, fidgeting and staring toward the front of the plane and trying to figure out if there’s a problem or if those bastards in First Class are just taking their sweet time about it. We wait. And keep waiting. Some sit down stoically. A dirty hippie starts meditating.

And then I smelled it. The faint yet distinct odor of hydrogen sulfide. Oh yes! Someone in the near vicinity of me, wayyyyyy at the back of the plane, had unleashed a furious deposit of silent but deadly rectal brimstone. The intensity increased, and like the slow creeping realization that a tidal wave is headed your way, I began to catch the eyes of my fellow passengers as we looked at one another and fearfully realized what was coming.

It was like a slow motion train wreck. We all looked around for some means of escape, but there was none to be had. Screaming “OH MY LORD!! IT’S GOT MY LEG!! OH DEAR GOD!!” seemed a bit melodramatic, so I had to just stand there and smell it. It washed over us all like a sour yellow wave. I caught a flight attendant’s eye and even she seemed to be grossed out. Our faces said it all — this was sick and wrong and a violation of our human rights.

You do not, ever, under any circumstances, unleash an SBD on a plane. That is NOT cool. I don’t care what culture you’re from, what language you speak, or if you skin is striped green and orange. NO FARTING ON THE PLANE.