The year was 2010. I was on a flight from the shithole nowhere town in Texas I lived in growing up to Dallas on a tiny commuter jet. My mom and brother were on the flight too, but we booked our flight late so we were sitting apart. I was just chillin' when the guy who had the seat next to me showed up. He could barely fit his massive girth through the aisle, and his titanic jiggling ass could fill at least three of the tiny seats on the plane. This is all pretty standard stuff for a fat guy plane story so far, but what happened next was bizarre. He sat down next to me, smashing me against the interior of the fuselage. I felt like I was in an olive oil press, and he probably wasn't too comfortable either. In plain view he pulled a pill bottle out of his messenger bag and swallowed an entire xanax bar, presumably to counter his anxiety regarding air travel. Next, he retrieved a family size bag of cheetos which he had somehow bought in the airport out of the same bag and began eating them. He didn't stop until half an hour later when we were up in the air and he had finished the bag. He promptly fell into a deeply unconscious state. The flight was only about and hour and a half long, and when we landed at DFW he was still out cold. His wife was sitting in the row behind me, and my mom and brother were near the very front of the plane. His wife had to rouse him from his benzodiazepine-induced Snorlax-esque slumber by vigorously shaking him and attempting to lift him out of his seat. He regained partial consciousness and stood up abruptly, conking his corpulent bald head on the luggage compartment, yelling out "FUCK!" in a groggy but exceptionally loud voice. Everyone on the plane was staring. His wife said frankly to me "he gets nervous on planes." I didn't know how to respond to this, because that's not really a valid justification for taking a high dose of xanax, making an ass out of yourself in front of a planeload of people, and nearly squashing an innocent weeaboo teenager to death.