The Most Embarrassing Private Jet Flight Of All Time

This story is stolen from this source.

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, it’s not unusual to visit two or three cities in a single day so work starts at the crack of dawn. That doesn’t mean the group goes to bed early. Every night, the bankers treat their clients to a wild night out in whatever town they are in, complete with thousand dollar dinners and endless alcohol. 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 you’re an investment banker traveling with some very important clients on one of these roadshows. Now imagine that you spent the previous night drinking 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 waffles, eggs, bacon and at least two glasses of coffee at the hotel’s 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 morning’s blur subsides. All you have to do is sit back and relax for the one hour flight to the next city.

There’s 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 I’m not talking about peeing. You have a stomach full of dinner, desert, drinks, eggs, waffles and coffee churning around your lower intestine at 30,000 feet. But that’s not the worst part. True horror sets in when you realize you’re 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…

This following nightmare is a 100% fully verified true story. It that happened to a very unlucky investment banker who has asked to remain anonymous for obvious reasons. He sent the story in to the amazing satirical twitter page “Goldman Sachs Elevator” (@GSElevator) which you need to follow immediately if you aren’t already. GSElevator was kind enough to let us re-post the full account of this incredible real life horror story below…

Just over halfway through the flight, all the coffee in my stomach feels like it’s 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 isn’t 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 shit my pants. “Thirty minutes to landing, maybe forty five” I try and tell myself, each jostle a gamble I can’t afford to lose. I signal to [the flight attendant] and she heads toward me.

“Excuse me, where is the bathroom, because I don’t 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 ass. She looks at me, bemused, and says, “Well, we don’t really have one per se.” She continues, “Technically, we have one, but it’s really just for emergencies. Don’t worry, we’re landing shortly anyway.”

“I’m 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, it’s under there. There’s a small privacy screen that pulls up around it, but that’s 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 fucking client. Our fucking female fucking client!

Up to this point, nobody has observed my struggle or my exchange with the flight attendant. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” That’s 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 I’m doing.

Given my jovial nature and fun-loving attitude thus far on the roadshow, almost everybody thinks I’m 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 toilet’s 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. It’s 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 I’m going to have a stroke, I push so hard to end the relief, the tormented sublime relief.

“I’m so sorry. I’m 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 that’s 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 weren’t sharing a stall with some guy crapping his intestines out. Releasing smelly, sweaty, shame at 100 feet per second.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry” is all the ashamed disembodied head can say…over and over again. Not that it mattered.

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Random Bidtits (9/20/2017)

The below is a urologist…and an actual person:

For those of you not getting it, that’s Dr. Dick Tapper, Urologist.

WTF is going on with all of these hurricanes in the Gulf?!?

First there was Harvey.  Then there was Irma, which was below initial expectations.  Then there was Jose…following the media spectacle that was Harvey and Irma, Jose never garnered the same attention – getting national coverage is tough and that’s one wall Jose couldn’t climb.  And now Maria.  But how do you solve a problem like Maria?  You stand up to it and stare it down in the face.  You make it your property, like vintage Batman did:

And finally, Warheads flavored lifting supplements followed by blatant concept theft:

I’ll leave you with a thought: I love the idea of colored toilet paper but then I can’t wipe effectively in low-light situations.  Amirite.

Happy Ides of the Ides of March!  And Happy Ides of September, brah!

Yo, home girl!  What’s good?  Happy Friday!  Random thought a good hombre shared with me this week: you can’t spell “advertisements” without “semen” between the “tits.”  Now you know!

Like that joke?  Well, Reagan be with you.

I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been taking creatine or because I’ve been pounding my clamhammer more than usual, but I’ve been having some serious issues with drippage while peeing over the last year.  I can’t stop pissing on the bathroom floor when I stand to pee and it’s really upsetting my cohabitants.  Well I came across the below last weekend and it added insult to injury.

This is no joke.  I keep pissing on the floor, whether it be a result of a spray action or multiple stream action dynamic.  Who wants to take a “piss funnel” to shark tank?

Before I forget, the quality of reporting at the Wall Street Journal is really falling apart:

They screwed up the article title with that extraneous “to” in there.  If he sees it, I doubt Woo Beijing is going to be very happy about this.

And finally, the topic about which I know both of you care profoundly: poop.  Yesterday, I dropped off the Cosby kids at the pool (I know they’re Cosby kids but they were lucid and conscious when I dropped them off) and wow, we’re talking MJ, funk of forty thousand years musk.  Much like the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait in 1990, I stormed in, tore shit up, dropped mortar rounds, decimated the local flora and fauna, and GTFO.  Unfortunately for those in the stalls next to me, I didn’t set my deed on fire during my hasty retreat.  The experience reminded me of a shit I found in a gas station bathroom this summer:

Spend some time on that photo.  Notice anything?  AS IN, HOW THE FUCK DID THE GUY PINCH ONE OFF THAT HIGH UP ON THE BOWL?!?  Seriously, how did he do it?  1)  Does he have a second anus at the top of his crack with a strong horizontal trajectory?  2)  Did he thrust it out with such great force that it literally bounced off the water, breaking all known laws of molecular cohesion?  3)  Did he angle his buttcheeks as to bank it off the side and rim it around the bowl only to land on the top of the back?

He needs this (I took this photo back in May – finally using it):

Overheard a line this morning by David Feherty that “the ball went into the cabbage and is now swallowed up.”  Hopefully that’ll be a good omen for my Friday night.  David also said that the golfer was really working hard on the slope…that’s how my friend lost his virginity!

And finally, because I can’t leave both of you with a thinly veiled racist comment, I ordered a pizza a few weeks ago that sounded a lot like I was filling out a dating preferences profile:

“Half baked” and “cut” are spot on but I’m missing the fromunda cheese option.

And because Arch Stanton likes redheads, this one is for him/her:

Today’s song of the day, for those of you who have the patience for my cow dung, is 679 by Fetty Wap.  Happy Friday and have an absolutely, positively terrific weekend!!!  Remember, it’s Labor Day only one day of the year but it’s Capital Day 364 days a year!

GTA Real Life: The Faggio Chronicles

Who here remembers the GTA series from our youth?  If so, you will remember the Faggio: a parody of both Vespa and Piaggio.  Here’s a photo from the game:

Cool, right?  Well I came across the ULTIMATE Faggio last weekend.  Huge faggio move.  Big league faggio.  Thanks, guy.

Dick move when I’m desperately searching for parking.  The guy is probably in the bar, sipping on a tall cool one:

Book plug time.  I read/listen to a book every two weeks and have been experimenting lately.  One that HAS to be on your list, even if you have but only the faintest interest in this stuff, is Neil DeGrasse Tyson’s Astrophysics for People in a Hurry.  Run to your library (or use the free Hoopla app for your phone) and get this book.  When Amazon recommends “Origins” by NDT, don’t worry, you basically already read it if you got through Astrophysics for Hombres in a Hurry.

Oh!  Is anyone up for a game?  Back, wayyyy back, before The Cookie Monster gave up carbs (cookies) for…well for other carbs (fruits and veggies), and before Mitt Romney threatened to put a bullet in Big Bird and cut funding, there was a game Big Bird played that he/she/it called One of These Things (although not every episode centered around him playing with his “yummy yummy bird seed,” even going as far as burying his/her/confused/undecided/but likely his nose in it).  Now I leave it to you: which one of these things is not like the others:

It’s hard to find so I’ll give you a hint: it’s in the middle up near the top, it’s small and undistinguished, it’s pink, and sometimes it can be hard to find in the broader sea of undulating movements.

And finally, food porn time!!!

Schadenfreude 101

First off, a little photo:

And now an article from Bloomberg.  “That sounds like another one of those gradeless, structureless, new age feel-gooderies.” – Michael Bluth

Startup Juicero Shutters Operations and Seeks a Buyer

By Eric Newcomer
September 1, 2017, 2:37 PM EDT September 1, 2017, 3:35 PM EDT

Juicero Inc., the vegetable and fruit juice startup that raised more than $100 million from investors, said it will suspend sales, offer refunds to customers and search for a buyer for the company.

The decision to shut down its business comes four months after a Bloomberg News report that the company’s juice packets could be squeezed by hand and didn’t require Juicero’s machine, which cost $400. The machine had previously sold for $700, before the price cut.

Juicero announced the decision in a statement Friday posted on its website. “It became clear that creating an effective manufacturing and distribution system for a nationwide customer base requires infrastructure that we cannot achieve on our own as a standalone business,” the San Francisco-based company said. Chief Executive Officer Jeff Dunn announced in July that the company would cut 25 percent of its staff, primarily in sales and marketing, and try to lower the price of its machine and juice packs.

Alphabet’s venture arm GV, Kleiner Perkins Caufield & Byers, Artis Ventures and Josh Kushner’s Thrive Capital are among the startups investors.

Some investors hoped the company’s internet-connected machine would do for juice what the Keurig, a coffee maker that required customers to keep buying its cartridges, did for coffee. Juicero sold its expensive juicer promising force “enough to lift two Teslas” along with packets of juice costing $5 to $7 each.

Juicero’s founder Doug Evans boasted about the technical complexity of the company’s juicer. “There are 400 custom parts in here,” he told Recode. “There’s a scanner; there’s a microprocessor; there’s a wireless chip, wireless antenna.”

Bloomberg revealed in an April article, accompanied by video evidence, that the juice machine was hardly a necessity since the packets could be more quickly squeezed by hand.

Juicero said Friday that it will offer refunds of its presses for the next 90 days. Pack subscriptions are ending the week of Sept. 4. Fortune earlier reported Juicero’s decision to cease operations.

“As we enter this new chapter, we also want to express the deepest gratitude to our employees who have poured their hearts and souls into developing, launching and growing Juicero over the past 3 years,” the company said in its statement.