I appear on the plane.

I punch Jeffrey Epstein in the nuts,

So hard.

I am forcibly detained.

But they forget to arrest me when they land

Because they have bigger things to worry about.

Fin.

Boffola - /bäˈfōlə/ 

Noun

             1. A female person who dances the boffa, a traditional dance originating in Iceland to ward off volcanic eruption. Traditionally involves a lot of shimmying and pickled fish.

                       "Wow, that gal is a wild boffola! Look at those legs go!"

             synonyms: bofferon (m), boff-baby, lunatic.

During spring break of my junior year of high school, my mother surprised me with a three day trip to the Mohonk Mountain House in upstate New York. We spent those days in blissful relaxation- hiking, ice skating, eating delicious food, and, most importantly, sleeping. (If you remember being a high school junior, you’ll understand how rare and beautiful a treasure the sleeping part was). It was, in fact, not until after we left the mountain resort that things started to go down hill.

“Mom, do we have any motion sickness medicine?” I asked, pulling my sweater tighter around myself. Maybe half an hour into the drive, I was starting to feel a little more than carsick, but denial is a beautiful thing. We managed to locate some dramamine, and I felt calm in the knowledge that the res t of the drive would be pleasant.

An hour in, and it had become clear to me that this was no mere motion sickness- the delicious food of the resort had done what resort food does best and betrayed it’s consumer. Food poisoning is a bitch, and I was feeling it’s effects pretty much full force. If there is one thing I am not, however, it’s a quitter, and so after acquiring a suitable plastic bag I was still determined to avoid the inevitable.

Two hours in, and I was still in the clear. ‘Clear’ being a relative term, as by this point I was feeling little better than a zombie. I leaned my seat back and took deep breaths, clutching onto my still-blessedly-unused bag. The highway stretched on in an endless, smooth expanse, and I came pretty close to wishing for death.

Hour three. We were approaching home, and I was approaching the end of my rope. My mother had long since given up doing any more than checking to make sure I was still breathing. My wish for death had been stamped, addressed, and sent out to any gods that might have been listening.

Hour four, we were so, so close. Maybe 20 more minutes and I could hide in the sweet haven of my home. That's when it happens- our car made a turn onto one of those clover intersections, and all of my sham stomach control flew out the window; or rather, into the plastic bag. I felt like Regan in the Exorcist. They say that your stomach is only the size of your fist, but on that day I’m pretty sure I proved it is much, much larger.

Somewhat frantic, my mother pulled over at a sort of community art center, where they have painting classes and the like during the day. It was late, and there were no other cars in the parking lot. I tied closed the Plastic Bag of Horrors and curled, fetus-like in the passenger seat, while my mom went out into the night to find a place to dispose of the cursed bag, and a restroom for herself. Unfortunately, the building was firmly locked, and she was forced to return with neither. 

We elected, through a lot of eyebrow-based conversation, to leave the bag inconspicuously tucked behind a bush.

My mother, logical woman that she is, decided to take a more complicated route to solve the bathroom issue. We had a few ‘rescue toilets’ tucked in the back of our car for emergencies, and she decided to try them out. Each ‘toilet’ is essentially a small ziplock bag with some water absorbent material in the bottom. So she went into the back of the car to try to use this new technology, apparently because since I was the only one around to see anything, and I was too busy moaning in the front passenger seat to tell her to maybe just wait until we got home.

Several minutes passed.

A series of creative curses erupted from the trunk, startling me from my vomit induced stupor. My mom emerged and retook her seat up front, somewhat redder and damper than I remembered her leaving.

I looked at her.

She looked at me.

It took about 10 seconds for me to start giggling, and she was close to follow. In just a few moments we were howling together, in an empty parking lot and newly unsanitary car. One part relief mixed with two parts horror and suddenly this was the funniest thing either of us had ever seen. Two women in a car, being mutually disastrous.

This mirth carried us all the way home, and I was still chucking around the time the food poisoning decided to have its second round with me.