My Shredded Wheat Heiress

My Shredded Wheat Heiress

By Cort Willoughby

As told to and embellished by Garland Davis

I was a newly minted Third Class Petty Officer on a flight to somewhere. A very pretty girl parked her lovely posterior in the seat beside me. As it turns out, she was related to the cereal folks in that famous Michigan city. I believe she told me that her Grandpappy had invented those straw bales they call Shredded Wheat.

I was on a roll, Mr. Smooth. I had a Westpac under my belt and had a fairly good idea of my goal in this budding relationship. This was, of course, before the days of burning bras and the advent of g-strings that did duty as Muff Covers. I was clicking and knew what the future might offer if I played the game right. I could tell that she was impressed with me and my suavity. I could tell I was making a positive impression.

I was deep into explaining the purpose of the thirteen buttons and the rapidity with which I could unbutton them when I caught her eyes directed to the vicinity of my crotch. In other words, she was indicating that she was more than a little interested in “Ole Luthor.” Holy shit, Little Eva! Signs that my future was assured. Looking good to give her a chance to meet and shake hands with him. A situation that any Fleet Sailor yearns for.

We had just finished the in-flight meal and were getting along just famously. That is when tragedy struck. My gut doesn’t play well with cucumbers. The salad was riddled with them. Not thinking I ate them. Cucumbers cause my digestive system to produce a noxious, eye burning, singe the hairs in your nose, a gas that will curl your fuckin’ hair. I mean it could surpass the odor of a thousand camels with the drizzlin’ shits.

Sure ‘nuff, my guts were percolating worse than Granny’s old coffee pot. We were getting around to trading addresses or making wedding plans or something. My guts were roaring. I was sure everyone could hear them. I had to park my ass on an in-flight shitter, Right Fuckin’ Now. A heaving swell from my throat to my asshole told me to move. Sweat popped out. Tryin’ to be slick and not let on, I said, “Be Right Back” and lunged to an upright position at the same time some asswipe dropped the overhead bin right on my gourd.

I couldn’t hold it. Blast, Blast, Blast my asshole went. Sure ‘nuff, my asshole is eye level to her face. As desperately as I try, I cannot stop it from belching out the noxious odor. I heard her gasp and gag, all in the same breath. I made a beeline for the head. My asshole must have caught a snag and busted open. Row after row of people are turning green, gagging, and coughing as I clamor down the aisle toward relief.

I remained in the head until after the plane landed and all the passengers had deplaned. The Flight Attendants never checked on me. Hell, they wouldn’t even look at me as I made my walkout. I am sure they were planning on “gas freeing” the aircraft before its next flight.

I never saw my Battle Creek, true love, again.

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