Yesterday I was flying across the country. My biggest fear when flying isn’t that the jet might crash; it’s that I might end up sitting next to the World’s Most Annoying Man for five hours. Theoretically, such a person exists. I mean, SOMEONE has to be the most annoying man in the world. And there’s a good chance that he flies. After yesterday, I’m reasonably sure that he looks like Mr. Clean on crack, and he was sitting next to me in seat 3D.

As you know, when people use headphones, they talk too loudly because they can’t hear themselves. I learned that this phenomenon extends to nasal sounds in the sniff-snort category. Mr. Clean on crack was rocking out to his iPod and sniff-snorting so loudly every few seconds that the flight crew kept looking out the window to see if a pterodactyl was attacking the fuselage.

Oh, I’m just getting started.

The World’s Most Annoying Man enjoyed whatever was on the little airplane TV after the feature film. He displayed his happiness by rocking back and forth and making a sound like a horse with his ‘nads caught on a barbed wire fence. It went something like EEYOOOREE-SNORT-SNIFF-EEEEYOOOREEE! If you have ever tried to take a nap when Mr. Clean on crack is gelding himself next to you, then you know it isn’t easy.

The World’s Most Annoying Man ordered a beer before takeoff. And another every half hour. Add to this picture his bladder that was the size of a mosquito’s pancreas, and you can imagine how many times I had to unbuckle and rebuckle. Several times he had to go see his “assistant” in the back of the plane, which turned out to be a failed mission twice because of a beverage cart and once because she was either asleep or pretending to be dead to avoid him.

I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.

He was a tall, lanky guy with, with fingers like breadsticks. Every few minutes he would grab some note paper and a pen, assume the “brilliant idea” pose, and then, I’m guessing, realizing he was more drunk than inspired, write a few words and…God help me…drum his fingers.

Now when I say “drum his fingers,” I do not mean softly or just a few times. I mean every few seconds for an hour he would go into a drum solo on his tray table that was apparently intended to jumpstart his brain and squeeze out that nugget of brilliance that was drowning in Heineken somewhere in his cerebellum. I glanced over at his notes a few times just to see if he was writing a solution to string theory or the first chapter of a great novel. But I think it was a cross between gibberish and whatever aspires to be gibberish. The finger drumming, like his snort-sniffing, was extra loud because he still had on the headphones. Those breadstick-fingers were banging louder than Paris Hilton locked in a steel drum with a hot robot. It bothered me so much that I lost my ability to make good analogies.

He tried once to make conversation with me. “Going home?” he asked. I avoided that trap like a hamster avoids a Richard Gere film festival. (See? I’m damaged.) “Going to work,” I answered. Had he asked what kind of work, I was ready to explain my career as an actuary. No one can survive that for more than five minutes without slipping into a coma. It’s a drastic measure, but at that point it was either him or me. And my level of self-loathing didn’t even come close to my desire to kill him. So it would have been him. Luckily for him, he went back to his nonverbal methods of being annoying, and thus inadvertently saved his life.

Next time I need to cross the country, I’m walking.