I was having a bad day, so I decided to read some Haribo reviews. As always it made my day better. I thought this one was especially funny, and I cant even imagine being in that situation. Enjoy : ) Review from Amazon: Before a company goes public, the highest level executives embark on a multi-city tour with their investment bankers to drum up support for the upcoming IPO. This trip is called a roadshow and since the group will typically visit dozens of cities on a tight schedule, a private jet is the preferred means of transportation. During a roadshow, its not unusual to visit two or three cities in a single day so work starts at the crack of dawn. That doesnt mean the group goes to bed early. Every night, the bankers treat their clients to a wild nights, complete with complimentary Gummy Bears and coffee. No matter how hard the group parties the night before, the private jet will lift them off to their next destination very early the next morning. Just for a minute, pretend youre an investment banker traveling with some very important clients on one of these roadshows. Now imagine that you spent the previous night dropping Yogi way beyond your limit only to be startled out of bed by a piercing 6:30 am wake up call. In an attempt to get your head and body feeling remotely human again, you scarf down some more warm Gummy Bears and at least two glasses of coffee at the hotels breakfast buffet before jumping on the shuttle to the private airport. Within a few minutes of arriving at the airport, your entire group is seated and the plane begins to taxi down the runway. At this point you might feel a bit of relief as the mornings blur subsides. All you have to do is sit back and relax for the one hour flight to the next city. Theres just one problem. In your rush to get out of the hotel, down to breakfast and onto the plane you forgot to do one very crucial thing. Go to the bathroom. And Im not talking about peeing. You have a stomach full of last nights multi-colored death bears and coffee churning around your lower intestine at 30,000 feet. But thats not the worst part. True horror sets in when you realize youre not on a spacious 20 person G5 with couches, beds, lay-z boys and a fully tucked away private bathroom. No, on this day you are traveling on a six-person puddle jumper sitting shoulder to shoulder with your clients and co-workers. But wait, somehow the story gets even worse… Just over halfway through the flight, all the coffee in my stomach feels like its percolating its way down into my lower intestine. I hunker down and try and focus on other things. What feels like an hour, but probably isnt more than twenty minutes, passes. We then enter what turns out to be pretty violent turbulence. With each bounce, I have to fight my body, trying not to poop my pants. Thirty minutes to landing, maybe forty five I try and tell myself, each jostle a gamble I cant afford to lose. I signal to [the flight attendant] and she heads toward me. Excuse me, where is the bathroom, because I dont see a door? I ask while still devoting considerable energy to fighting off what starts to feel like someone shook a seltzer bottle and shoved it up my butt. She looks at me, bemused, and says, Well, we dont really have one per se. She continues, Technically, we have one, but its really just for emergencies. Dont worry, were landing shortly anyway. Im pretty sure this qualifies as an emergency, I manage to mutter through my grimace. I can see the fear in her face as she points nervously to the back seat. The turbulence outside is matched only by the cyclone that is ravaging my bowels. She points to the back of the plane and says, There. The toilet is there. For a brief instant, relief passes over my face. She continues, If you pull away the leather cushion from that seat, its under there. Theres a small privacy screen that pulls up around it, but thats it. At this point, I was committed. She had just lit the dynamite and the mine shaft was set to blow. I turn to look where she is pointing and I get the urge to cry. I do cry, but my face is so tightly clenched it makes no difference. The toilet seat is occupied by the CFO, i.e. our freaking client. Our freaking female freaking client! Up to this point, nobody has observed my struggle or my exchange with the flight attendant. Im so sorry. Im so sorry. Thats all I can say as I limp toward her like Quasimodo impersonating a penguin, and begin my explanation. Of course, as soon as my competitors see me talking to the CFO, they all perk up to find out what the hell Im doing. Given my jovial nature and fun-loving attitude thus far on the roadshow, almost everybody thinks Im joking. She, however, knows right away that I am anything but and jumps up, moving quickly to where I had been sitting. I now had to remove the seat top – no easy task when you can barely stand upright, are getting tossed around like a hoodrat at a block party, and are fighting against a gastrointestinal Mt. Vesuvius. I manage to peel back the leather seat top to find a rather luxurious looking commode, with a nice cherry or walnut frame. It had obviously never been used, ever. Why this moment of clarity came to me, I do not know. Perhaps it was the realization that I was going to take this toilets virginity with a fury and savagery that was an abomination to its delicate craftsmanship and quality. I imagined some poor Italian carpenter weeping over the violently soiled remains of his once beautiful creation. The lament lasted only a second as I was quickly back to concentrating on the tiny muscle that stood between me and molten hot lava. I reach down and pull up the privacy screens, with only seconds to spare before I erupt. Its an alka-seltzer bomb, nothing but air and liquid spraying out in all directions – a Jackson Pollock masterpiece. The pressure is now reversed. I feel like Im going to have a stroke, I push so hard to end the relief, the tormented sublime relief. Im so sorry. Im so sorry. My apologies do nothing to drown out the heinous noises that seem to carry on and reverberate throughout the small cabin indefinitely. If thats not bad enough, I have one more major problem. The privacy screen stops right around shoulder level. I am sitting there, a disembodied head, in the back of the plane, on a bucking bronco for a toilet, all while looking my colleagues, competitors, and clients directly in the eyes. Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain! briefly comes to mind. I literally could reach out with my left hand and rest it on the shoulder of the person adjacent to me. It was virtually impossible for him, or any of the others, and by others I mean high profile business partners and clients, to avert their eyes. They squirm and try not to look, inclined to do their best to carry on and pretend as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening, that they werent sharing a stall with some guy dropping his intestines out. Releasing smelly, sweaty, shame at 100 feet per second. Im so sorry. Im so sorry is all the ashamed disembodied head can say…over and over again. Not that it mattered.
Posted on: Tue, 22 Jul 2014 09:27:18 +0000
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