What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Stranger

The Dirty Schavarny January 26, 2017

So, I had to take a plane ride by myself last week. No husband to keep me company and watch my bag while I used the airport bathroom. For those of you who know how terribly co-dependent I am, you know this was a trying endeavor.

But don’t worry, the universe provided me with entertainment. The problem is that the entertainment had to do with some rather sexual things. So when I say schavarny, what I really mean is a c-word that could be a type of chicken. Get it? Okay, moving on.

I’m settling into my seat on my super early morning flight. Already have my eye mask on, am snuggled in next to the window ready to try and sleep the next few hours into non-existence, when I hear a male voice behind me.

“His schavarny grew in her hand? I thought you didn’t read that stuff.”


The woman he’s with instantly gets defensive. “I’m not reading anything like that!”

The man laughs. “Yes, you are. It says ‘His schavarny grew in her hand!’ What? Are you mad because I embarrassed you?”

At this point I’m just laughing. I know I shouldn’t have laughed out loud, but I just pictured this woman defensively clutching her erotica while claiming she wasn’t reading about schavarnies. And I was tired, my humor defenses were low.

The man continues, “It doesn’t matter to me if you want to ready about a schavarny growing in her hand, but why would you lie about it?”

That’s when the whisper-fighting started. I think they might have broken up, and my laughing may have contributed. But if you’re going to talk about growing schavarnies at 7am, be wary of your volume. You never know what sick soul might be sitting in the seat in front of you.


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