Garry Cubit was the worst kind of annoying person—the kind who had no idea he was annoying. If you acted annoyed, he’d act surprised, which was even more annoying. But Garry’s unique evolutionary blessing was that he was blind to how truly annoying he was. He often wondered why he didn’t have many friends or long-term romances, but he never came close to an answer. But all the time, the answer was right in front of his face—the answer was “Garry Cubit.” The reason he spent most of his time alone was because nobody wanted to be around him.
With his pear-shaped body, flat-top haircut, and a mustache that was only a little bit wider than Hitler’s, Garry resembled a six-foot-four beaver in a cheap business suit.
Garry was an executive marketing assistant for a paper manufacturer in Lebanon, Kansas, way out on the flat, windswept plains of flyover country. It was literally the geographic midpoint of the USA, but instead of being the center of everything, it felt like the middle of nowhere—to everyone except Garry. To him, the center of everything was wherever he happened to be.
On this particular overcast and gloomy day, he was at the Kansas City International Airport attempting to board a flight headed to Las Vegas. The last time he was in Vegas, he’d hired an Asian female escort. When she arrived at his motel room, he asked if she was Japanese. She replied that she was Korean. He told her that he hates Korean food—too “spicy”—and would have preferred a Japanese woman, since they’re his favorite Asians. She quickly grew so annoyed that she stomped out of his motel room not only without touching him, but without being paid. She could deal with bad breath and small penises and rotten toenails and Sasquatch-thick back hair, but this asshole was definitely not worth the money.
A frugal man, Garry had chosen one of those cheap flights that charge a $25 fee if your bag is bigger than a specified size. At check-in, there was a steel bin where you could fit your bag to see if it was small enough for you to get by without paying a fee.
With at least two dozen people standing in line behind him, Garry spent the next few minutes feverishly trying to cram and squash his clearly oversized bag into the bin. He even sat down on it. Then he started bouncing up and down on it, trying to ram the his brown-vinyl travel bag’s muffin tops below the cutoff line. No luck.
“This is ridiculous,” muttered someone in the line behind him.
“Just pay the fee, man,” someone else said sharply.
Garry turned back glowering at the increasingly hostile crowd behind him. “I don’t know what you people do for a living,” he scoffed. “You’re probably all on welfare. But I’m a working man, and I need to save every dollar I can.”
And then he felt it.
He’d never been stung by a jellyfish before, but he’d imagined what it felt like, and he felt a sudden, sharp burning sensation in his rectum.
Must have been the fast food I ate on the way to the airport, he thought.
Merely to speed up the line and get Garry moving, the airline representative let him take his oversized bag on the plane without paying the $25 fee.
But when she rolled her eyes about it behind Garry’s back, he felt that same sharp pain in his ass again.
Garry squeezed his oversized bulk into the tiny seat he’d been assigned near the back of the plane—a window seat. He immediately pulled out his tablet, popped in his earbuds, and began playing a military-action video game where the object was to kill as many terrorists as possible.
Even before takeoff, Garry started yelling at the “enemies” he was shooting in the video game. Everyone within fifteen rows could hear him. An elderly lady seated next to him finally tapped on his shoulder. Garry removed the earbuds and looked at her angrily.
“Sir, could you please be a little more quiet? Some of us are trying to sleep.”
“Where are you from—Russia?” Garry snapped back. “Lady, I live in a free country, and now if you’ll leave me alone, I’m going to get back to enjoying myself.”
Again came the ass pain. Sharper than ever.
When the beverage cart rolled by, Garry purchased a double Scotch on the rocks. After taking one sip, he loudly called out to the stewardess, who was serving drinks five rows away.
“Miss?” Garry asked. “Miss? I ordered a double. This tastes like a single.”
The stewardess sighed slightly. “Sir, we carefully measure these drinks. I poured out two shots for you.”
“No, I’m sure you didn’t,” Garry countered. “Here, come take a sip and you’ll see that I’m right.”
Then the ass pain hit like a thunderbolt straight up his poop chute. Garry doubled over and yelped loudly.
“Sir, are you OK?” the stewardess asked, genuinely concerned.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Here, take a sip of this so-called ‘double Scotch’ and you’ll see that I’m right and that it’s actually a single Scotch and I’d like what I ordered, please, which was a double Scotch.”
More rectal thunderbolts, each one stronger than the last.
Garry told the two people buckled in their seats between himself and the aisle that he needed to get up and use the restroom.
Stuffed into the airplane bathroom, Garry pulled down his trousers and wiped his behind with toilet paper. There was bright red blood on the tissue.
Undeterred, he flushed the bloody toilet paper and spent the next fifteen minutes masturbating to completion in the bathroom.
After he returned to his seat—forcing the two people in his row to get up again—he was barely in his seat one minute before he tapped the kindly old lady on the shoulder.
“I’m sorry—I forgot to pee when I was in the bathroom. I need to get up again.”
And then came waves of anal pain that were so overwhelming, they triggered a cardiac event that would kill Garry Cubit, the annoying paper-company executive marketing assistant from Kansas, as he sat in his window seat.
He would never see Las Vegas again. Even worse for him—but better for the rest of the world—he would never be a pain in anyone’s ass again.