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July 14, 2010
Discovering who your seatmate is on a plane is almost as nerve-wracking as finding your desk in homeroom on the first day of school. You don't want to be stuck, thanks to the caprice of last names, next to the girl with the dirty homemade dress, the boy with the inexplicably wet hands, or anyone with a freshly-shaved head. Imagine my chagrin when I reach my seat and find a profusely sweating lump of woman flesh hunched over an overflowing meatball sandwich oozing grease and sauce, blanketed in sauerkraut, fuchsia panties riding high above the waistband of her jeans. Welcome!