It’s election season again, and the insanity wafting through the air is especially pungent this year! And though the future holds the promise of terrible politicians being handed the reigns to our future, the upside is that the talent pool this go-around is rife with morons, dipshits, dingbats, racists, homophobes, and utter whackaloons. Maybe even a crazy homeless guy or two. So to numb the pain caused by the prospect of a congress run by John Boehner, I present you with a laundry list of this election’s choicest oddities:
Carl Paladino
Not only does he bear a striking resemblance to both Emperor Palpatine and Pope Benedict, he also manages to embody a similar level of evil as his doppelgangers, though in a more delightfully cartoonish way. Case in point, he has maintained his stance that homosexuality and abortions are both disgusting abominations, and that either practice has no place in our society. Despite his apparent contempt for gays he was once the proud owner of not one, but two gay bars in Buffalo. Meanwhile, he’s been busy starting racist chain letters and sending them to state employees. Oh, and there’s also the mass e-mailing of a video featuring a horse making passionate and somewhat painful love to a young woman, which he dubbed “hilarious” in the e-mail. Carl has threatened reporters for simply asking him questions, and publicly stated that he’s in favor of putting welfare recipients into concentration camps so that they can be taught proper hygiene.
That’s not all of it though. I’ve saved my favorite part for last. He has accused his opponent Andrew Cuomo of being “an adulterer and an immoral degenerate.” Meanwhile he has an illegitimate 10-year-old daughter. Though to Paladino’s credit, he did come clean about his affair and the resultant lovechild with his wife. Being the sensitive man that he is, he confessed everything to her a few short hours after their son died in a car crash. Classy.
When asked by a reporter if he was crazy, Paladino answered: “Like a fox!” Please sir, don’t be so insulting to foxes.
Rich Iott
Rich wasn’t very well known, even in his own state of Ohio earlier in the campaign. He’d been called out for lying about his “military service,” when it was proven that he was only ever involved in a local militia, but other than that it seemed that it’d be a rather quiet election season for him. Then fate smiled upon us all and pictures of him dressed in a Nazi uniform began circulating on the internet. Iott, pictured above enjoying a tall cold one with friends after a long day of playing Nazi, decided to quickly clarify things for an angry public so that he could put the whole matter behind him. He stated that while he condemns what the Nazis did, he does have “huge respect for what they accomplished, militarily speaking, of course…” Perfectly understandable.
Let’s be fair, he’s a history buff, but that’s not why he got involved with Nazi reenactments. He said that it started as “a father son bonding thing…” but quit after his son lost interest. Short of fishing and the boy scouts, what other choice did he have? He was just trying to be a good dad, and we can’t possibly hold that against him.
Krytal Ball
My heart goes out to this poor girl running for Congress in Virginia. With parents hateful enough to give her that name she didn’t have much of a chance. And she certainly lived up to her dirty moniker when she became the first politician in history to elicit this headline: Congressional Candidate Regrets Sucking Reindeer Dildo. Aside from these photos she seems to have a relatively sound political stance. These Democrats just can’t seem to keep from getting crucified for felatio of one kind or another. They really need to put the cameras away at parties.
Jimmy McMillan
It’s refreshing to see a politician who’s crazy in a harmless way. Sure to spice up any political debate with his prize winning facial hair, black velvet gloves, and rambling non sequiturs, the self-proclaimed Karate master and head of the “Rent is too damn high” party is a prize to be cherished, as he will most likely fade into obscurity mere days after the election. Though you have to admire a man willing to take a stand on controversial issues, like the right of any American to marry a shoe if they so wish. God speed, sir.
Jan Brewer
The governor best known for making it a crime to be brown in her home state of Arizona, Jan Brewer is prone to long stretches of silence during debates and interviews, during which she nods and smiles at the camera before stumbling through sentence after sentence of half intelligible dribble. After falsely stating that illegal immigrants have turned Arizona into the kidnapping capitol of the world and leaving decapitated corpses in the dessert, she clarified by saying that she was “thinking of Mexico, not Arizona,” and accidentally misspoke. To her credit, it takes a lot of guts to admit on national television that you don’t know what country you’re in, especially when you’re an elected official.
Tim D'Annunzio
This is a man whose wife said in an interview that he “…claimed to be the messiah… …traveled to New Jersey to raise his step father from the dead… believed that God would drop a 1,000 mile high pyramid on Greenland… [And] …he though that he found the Ark of the Covenant in the Arizona dessert…” Next to all that, his refusal to pay child support and a brief stint in rehab for heroin addiction seem rather tame. The funny part in all this? He’s ahead in the polls. God bless America!
David “Diapers” Vitter
Incumbent Louisiana senator David Vitter has established a proud history of denying reality. A staunch member of both the Tea Party and the “birther” movement, he made the top ten in Esquire’s “Worst Senators and Representatives” list in 2010. Vitter has announced publicly that “Abortion is NOT a women’s issue.”
A family values campaigner who has historically used prostitutes in numerous states who were willing to make him wear diapers and act out infantalist fantasies, he was integral to the DC Madam scandal that erupted back in 2007. He spent taxpayer dollars on numerous hookers and spent most of his time as a congressman calling said hookers from the floor of the House while everyone else was busy voting on the future of this country. A classy guy if ever there was one.
When not busy defending a man’s right to beat his wife senseless, senator Vitter enjoys long walks on the beach, and deep-dicking prostitutes all over this fine country of ours behind his wife’s back.
Christine O’Donnell
Ah, the crème de la crème of crazy. A woman who seems blissfully unaware that people tend to write down what she says and save it for later. Where to start? Well, she thinks that coed dorms lead to “orgy rooms,” that freak dancing leads to date rape, has admitted to “dabbling in witchcraft,” (and subsequently ran ads stating “I am NOT a witch!). She also believes that scientists are working on human/mouse hybrids, and that they must be stopped. Were this true I would agree with her.
Miss O’Donnell has stated that taking prayer out of classrooms has led to weekly school shootings. She has claimed on numerous occasions that God himself has spoken directly to her and that they had an actual dialogue. Don’t we usually put people like that in straight jackets?
She’s opposed to abortion under any circumstances, including rape and incest. She’s led several campaigns against premarital sex, and has even come out against masturbation, because let’s face it, were a ten year old boy to jerk off our country would surely fall into ruin. Thanks for keeping an eye on things Christine.
A stout creationist, she believes that the Earth is six thousand years old, that dinosaurs coexisted with humans, and that evolution is a hoax concocted by liberal Satanists. Evolution can’t occur without sex, so at least she’s consistently against good ideas.
Essentially, Christine O’Donnell is a woman who says that she draws her wisdom from only two books; the Bible and J.R.R. Tolkein’s The Lord of the Rings. She stands against everything from stem cell research to nude sunbathing. She thinks that her political opponents are watching her sleep from the bushes outside her window, and she was unaware that the separation of church and state is in the first amendment. But with a wink and a smile, she might do just as well as Sarah Palin. I’ll ready my travel papers should that occur.
And there you have it, a true rogues gallery of absurd human beings. The finest gems of stupidity that our species has to offer. What can we learn from these diverse and deliciously delusional delegates? Probably nothing. Aside from the fact that we’re all fucked.
Happy voting!
The song “Escape,” written and performed by Rupert Holmes, and horribly re-dubbed “The Pina Colada Song,” after it was featured on the soundtrack to “Shrek,” is by all accounts a terrible song. A guilty pleasure at best. Barely music. It’s the kind of interminable dross that lonely housewives enjoy just as much as their soap operas and boxed wine. It’s a song for people who say that they “Just don’t get the Beatles.” If you ask someone what their political beliefs are and they tell you “Oh, I don’t really follow politics…” I’d be willing to bet money that this song is on their ipod.
If you’ve been lucky enough to have never heard it in your life and you have no idea what I’m talking about, check it out here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7hf8BJVwdnY&feature=fvst
I find this homemade “music video” entertainingly childish. It matches perfectly with the simpleminded lyrics.
I’m always amazed at how many people love this song. I’m fine with those who admit that it’s a guilty pleasure, but for the most part it comes over the speakers at a Starbucks and no less than three troglodytes light up and exclaim, “Oh my God, I love this song!” This has to stop. I feel that it’s my duty to deconstruct this poor excuse for music so that people will be more aware of what an artistic abortion they’ve been happily listening to for years.
The lyrics to “Escape” are vapid, corny, and just awful. As far as inspired lyricism goes, this shit is down there with Kid Rock and Soulja Boy, right at the bottom of the talent barrel. But to the credit of the artist, (and I do use that word liberally here), these lyrics, were they used as the basis for a script, would make an excellent low rent romantic comedy. It’s perfect! A couple has grown tired of the routine and minutia of married life and they tentatively look elsewhere. She places a personal ad, and despite all misgivings he still feels compelled to respond when he sees it. He laments, there’s an extramarital rendezvous, they meet and discover that they’d always loved the hidden, uninhibited side of each other and now they can re-discover that love! What an incredibly bankable, formulaic, mass-marketable, bullshit silver screen schlock story. Richard Geere and Julia Roberts play opposite each other once more for this delightful rom-com romp this summer! I think I could option this piece to a studio, this shit is bankable!
The series of events depicted in this song are ludicrous. Allow me to dissect the lyrics line by line:
I was tired of my lady, we'd been together too long.
Like a worn-out recording, of a favorite song.
Understandable. In today’s world we’re becoming increasingly used to these sentiments. The boredoms that married couples often experience after the honeymoon wears off have been well documented, and most people are sympathetic to them. Marriage can feel like a trap. So the first lines come from a believable place and seem to be one of the only glimmers of realism that the song has to offer.
So while she lay there sleeping, I read the paper in bed.
And in the personals column, there was this letter I read:
First of all, if you’re married and bored, chances are you aren’t reading the personals in bed with your wife. You’re more likely discretely looking for excitement and danger on Craigslist, hoping for that threesome you never pulled off in college with two chicks who are most likely going to ask for money to buy drugs with. If you’re comfortable with an exchange of currency and really in the mood to spice up your sex life you might head over to the meatpacking district and go trolling for trannies. Whatever your perversion, you won’t be looking for it in the back of a newspaper, and you certainly won’t be researching your extramarital activities in front of your spouse. That’s just plain stupid. If you’re going to cheat you may as well go for the gusto and get involved in a weekly S&M fisting club. Why not? It’s not like your wife will find out.
"If you like Pina Coladas, and getting caught in the rain.
I’m not one for Pina Coladas, but then again I drink to forget. My umbrage with this woman’s choice in libations however is not the main concern here. She romanticizes getting caught in the rain, and I can’t see why. Getting caught in the rain sucks. It’s fun for about thirty seconds and then it’s cold and wet and shitty. Not appealing.
If you're not into yoga, if you have half-a-brain.
I agree that a potential mate should possess at least fifty percent of the required grey matter to function, that goes without saying, but why so anti-yoga? She’s clearly not into fitness or flexibility. Most likely a fat chick who’d be a cadaverous lay. Again, why is he still reading?
If you like making love at midnight, in the dunes of the cape.
I'm the lady you've looked for, write to me, and escape."
Who doesn’t like making love at midnight? Or any time of day for that matter? It’s the dunes where you lose me. I don’t know if this woman has ever been porked on a sand dune or if it’s just another childish fantasy like the bit about the rain, but I have made the sex with a lady in sand and it fucking hurts. It’s sharp, impedes any enjoyment of friction, and it hides in places that are hard to clean properly. On the whole the person writing this ad sounds very naïve and unappealing. No man in his right mind would ever reply to them, right?
Wrong! Rupert Holmes would!
I didn't think about my lady, I know that sounds kind of mean.
But me and my old lady, had fallen into the same old dull routine.
And when you decided to get married you weren’t expecting routine? If you want to live a devil may care life with constant surprises, danger, and excitement then don’t get married you moron. Become a drug-addled mercenary and travel the world working for the highest bidder. Then you can bang, snort, and kill whoever and whatever you want, whenever you want to. To be honest, I may opt for that over marriage. Sounds like a lot more fun.
So I wrote to the paper, took out a personal ad.
And though I'm nobody's poet, I thought it wasn't half-bad.
No sir, you are most definitely not a poet Rupert Holmes. That’s the one thing you got dead right in this song.
"Yes, I like Pina Coladas, and getting caught in the rain.
Wow, the only two people out there who like combining the joy of the world’s gayest beverage with the discomfort of being trapped outdoors during inclement weather. These assholes deserve each other.
I'm not much into health food, I am into champagne.
Again, a brief moment of realism in this farce. I can believe that this character is a real person. A real person would say something like that. Kudos, Rupert Holmes, you salvaged a believable sentence from this clusterfuck.
I've got to meet you by tomorrow noon, and cut through all this red tape.
At a bar called O'Malley's, where we'll plan our escape."
I’m pretty sure he just misused the term “red tape.” Unless of course his marriage is somehow also a bureaucracy. I’m also confused by this “escape” that both parties keep referring to. Last time I checked “escape” wasn’t some euphemism for getting some strange snatch on the side, so one can only assume that these characters live in some sort of bizarre dystopian prison state. Funny that it doesn’t feature more prominently in the lyrics.
So I waited with high hopes, then she walked in the place.
I knew her smile in an instant, I knew the curve of her face.
It was my own lovely lady, and she said, "Oh, it's you."
That’s you’re reaction? “Oh, it’s you,” ? Not, “You mother fucker! You came here to cheat on me?”
And we laughed for a moment, and I said, "I never knew"..
Really? You just laughed? “Oh, what a silly misunderstanding!” Chuckle chuckle, that’s it. For serious? Essentially, you just caught your spouse trying to bone someone else behind your back, and your reaction is amusement. Ok, I’ll suspend my disbelief, yet again.
At this point the refrain continues mercilessly ad nauseum until the song finally fades into silence, though the memory of it will surely linger well past the point of comfort.
"That you liked Pina Coladas, and getting caught in the rain.
And the feel of the ocean, and the taste of champagne.
If you like making love at midnight, in the dunes of the cape.
You're the love that I've looked for, come with me, and escape."
"If you like Pina Coladas, and getting caught in the rain.
If you're not into yoga, if you have half-a-brain.
If you like making love at midnight, in the dunes of the cape.
You're the love that I've looked for, come with me, and escape."
Ok. Time to inject a little bit of perspective. While the premise of the song has more holes in it than a copy of the Warren Report printed on Swiss cheese, I’ll just attack the more glaring errors. The song hinges entirely on a mutual love of Pina Coladas. If they both love Pina Coladas so much, then why have they never shared that information with each other? Why have they never ordered one while out to dinner together?
“Oh, no thanks, I drink martinis when I’m with my wife. I only venture into the more tropical cocktails during bouts of infidelity.” Just pure bullshit.
And of course, the most glaring error in story construction; the ending. We’re really supposed to believe that it would play out like that? This is much more than a silly misunderstanding, a simple story you can tell your kids about one day after reconciling your differences. From here you can’t just fix the boredom and spice up your marriage with a laundry list of your likes and dislikes. These people clearly have deep seated issues that can’t be laughed off. This is a betrayal on both parts, and they caught each other in the act.
Here is the transcript of the conversation that would take place had this scenario played out in reality with real people:
Rupert Holmes: What the hell are you doing here?
Lovely Lady: What the hell are YOU doing here??
Rupert Holmes: You told me you were seeing a movie with your sister tonight!
Lovely Lady: And you said you had to return some videotapes. Guess that makes you a liar!
Rupert Holmes: And I guess that means you’ve been lying to me this whole time. When were you gonna tell me how much you loved Pina Coladas? On your deathbed? How could you keep that a secret from me?!?
He angrily downs a shot that he steals from a nearby bar patron.
Lovely Lady: (Tears of rage streaming down her face) Oh yeah? Well here I am, like an idiot, after ten years of marriage, still thinking that you love that tofu salad I make every week, and all you wanna do is drink champagne with some whore you met in the paper.
Rupert Holmes: You are that whore!
Lovely Lady: Don’t talk to me like that! I will not be talked to like that, you cheating bastard!
Rupert Holmes: Me? You were the one who took out the ad! You’re the one trying to fuck strangers, all I did was answer it.
Lovely Lady: Well you didn’t know I did that, so you still had every intention of boning some tarted up slut in the bathroom of this dive bar!
Rupert Holmes: I never said any of that in the letter! See, right there, you took one wrong thing I did and turned it into some imaginary horror story where I’m an asshole and you’re the victim. No wonder I answered that ad, I can’t live with you. You’re a miserable psychotic cunt! And aside from that, you made the first move here, not me.
Lovely Lady: Well maybe I wouldn’t need a stranger’s cock in my life if you’d get off your lazy ass and fuck me once in a while!
Rupert Holmes: And maybe I’d actually feel like doing that if you weren’t always wearing sweatpants and hair curlers. If you took care of yourself I might still find you attractive enough to lay on top of occasionally!
Lovely Lady: I stopped caring a long time ago. Besides, your dick’s so tiny it wouldn’t satisfy a horny twelve year old. I’m a woman, I have needs. You’re sporting a birch shrub, I need a man who’s swinging a sequoia between his legs!
Rupert Holmes: I knew it! I knew you had a secret thing for black guys! You goddamn tramp!
Lovely Lady: It’s not a black thing, it’s the fact that your pecker is two inches long. And I could live with that if you occasionally went down on me, but you’re fucking selfish, so I have to turn elsewhere!
Rupert Holmes: I’m not selfish, I don’t do that because your twat smells like a hobo’s sweaty taint!
At this point Lovely Lady grabs a knife from a nearby table and this quickly turns into a domestic spat gone homicide.
End Scene
I believe I’ve made my point sufficiently, so I’ll conclude by saying that if you had previously enjoyed this song, and even after reading this you still consider yourself a Rupert Holmes fan, then allow me to be the first person to inform you that you’re an utter moron. You are exactly the kind of person responsible for the degradation of art and culture in our society. YOU are part of the problem. You are an imbecilic waste of sperm, and I sincerely hope that you die.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go listen to Huey Lewis and the News. Toodles.
I hate healthy cereals. Not because they’re full of life-elongating vitamins and fiber to keep you regular. Not because of my childish demeanor that dictates I’m not supposed to like things that are good for me. Not even because they taste like prison ass, but because they’re sold to you through false advertising. Allow me to explain.
I love to eat Lucky Charms. They truly are magically delicious. And they’re fantastic to eat out of a Frisbee with a fork when you’re high at two in the morning. So I was sitting in my chair one night, eating my Lucky Charms, watching a Dr. Who rerun, when I saw a commercial for “Total” cereal. It featured a man in his 50’s, shirtless and ripped as hell, sprinting through a forest, chasing a gazelle. This got my attention. He’s tearing ass, snapping branches that cross his path like toothpicks, without even losing stride. He’s about to pass the gazelle when he suddenly lunges at his foe, catches it, kills it with his bare hands, pulls a bowl of Total out of its intestines, and eats it. Then, he bellows at the sky in triumph over nature, his face covered in the animal’s still-warm blood. The implication, clearly, is that if you eat Total you too can slaughter wildlife with impunity, at any age, while at the same time staving off osteoporosis because Total has 100% of your daily calcium requirement.
I think to myself, “I wanna be able to do that when I’m fifty! Hell, I can’t even do that now! I’ve gotta get me some of that Total!” Then I saw the end of the commercial, where they show you a bowl of the cereal on a tray that holds a “balanced breakfast.” There’s a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice, a bran muffin, and slices of cantaloupe next to a big glowing bowl of total. It looked heavenly. The enchanting golden flakes of vitamin enhanced goodness, the clusters of nuts and berries strafed throughout. It was simply delectable. I was licking the television screen. I was also on shrooms, so I may have hallucinated most of the commercial. Regardless, as I pressed my tongue to the images of this magical breakfast on the screen it tasted sweeter than words can describe, though I’ll try. It tasted like true love’s first kiss on a hot summer night. Like a warm embrace from a long lost friend. In fact, it tasted just like the first time I’d ever heard the Beatles. I had to have it. So I went to the store and bought a box. When I got it home I was sorely disappointed.
The picture on the box was the same grand spectacle presented at the end of the commercial. But when I poured myself a bowl, a bunch of corrugated cardboard and drywall chunks fell out. No golden flakes dripping with honey. No exotic nuts and succulent berries. Just a steaming pile of advertising bullshit. It tasted horrendous, and worst of all, even after choking down the whole God damn box, it had no effect on me.
I went outside to look for a gazelle but decided I should start with smaller prey. I needed to warm up before taking on African game. I proceeded to frantically chase squirrels around my backyard. Those little bastards can serpentine like no other. I couldn’t keep up with them, and quickly began feeling light headed. There was a shooting pain in my arm and I thought that I would surely be known as that dumb guy who ate too much cereal and died of a heart attack while chasing squirrels. Finally, I projectile vomited the entire box of Total all over my neighbor’s flower bed. Incidentally, I hate my neighbor, so I was fine with the mess I'd made. Point is though, I wasn’t able to chase, capture, or disembowel ANY squirrels, let alone gazelles, which proves that General Mills is full of shit. I’ll stick to my Frisbee full of high fructose corn syrup and deliciousness.
Fuck Total.
Who Am I?
A former upstanding, god-fearing citizen.
An ex-herd member.
A broken cog in the machinery.
The rebellious first born,
An immigrant’s son
Lost in a land of insanity.
A non-believer with no faith in humanity.
I smoke ‘cause I know it’s bad for me
I drink whiskey ‘cause I like the taste of poison
And I do drugs because they’re illegal.
I drive a shitty car
And it reeks of booze and pussy,
Just like it should.
I get high at funerals
I piss on churches
I start fights
I ruin lives
And chances are,
I’m fucking your wife.
I’m an overgrown man-child.
A tightly wound bundle of youthful potential,
Merely floating through my prime.
A committed apathist.
A prolific, prophetic asshole,
With a penchant for philosophical dick jokes.
Judge,
Jury,
And Excommunicated.
A raging ego
With nothing but false bravado.
An analogue operator
Forced to go digital.
Paranoid, bipolar, and schizophrenic,
But trust me, my delusions are real.
I love chaos.
I create it.
I bathe in it.
The system is broken
And the rules are imagined.
I'm here to fuck shit up.
A self-loathing hypocrite.
A drug-addled youth,
Who can’t finish a damn thing.
A disappointment,
And salvation.
A nihilistic romantic.
Alone in a city of millions.
I’m everything you’re not supposed to be.
I’m a Modern Miscreant.
To write for work
Is to resign
Yourself to a life in the bottle
When you get bad reviews
And depression hits
There’s no other way to be coddled
For when you stare
At the blank page
And know that you aren’t prolific
You can at least keep
Good company
By becoming an alcoholic
It seemed to work out
For Hemmingway
When all was said and done
Except at the end
When he scratched an itch
On the back of his head with a gun
A new law was passed recently which officially banned masturbating on international flights. It’s a strangely specific piece of legislation, and normally I’d be content to just laugh at the fact that the government actually spent time and tax dollars on this benign subject, but they’re going to be classifying this action as a felony, so as an avid masturbator, I have to defend my civil liberties. The law was deemed “necessary,” because it dealt with “aspects of national security.” Another innocent pleasure lost because of Al Qaeda. Thanks a lot Islamic fundamentalists.
I’m pissed off because this law affects me personally. Prior to this law my routine for flying internationally was as follows:
Eat a pot brownie before entering the terminal so that the magic of flight won't be lost on me while in the air. In the good old days, you could just take the brownies on the plane with you, and not worry about drug dogs or pat-downs in the terminal, but thanks to the underwear bomber even Pablo Eskobar couldn’t make it past those new scanning machines with an eight ball in his ass. So now I have to look like an insane pig in the parking lot, wolfing down an entire tin of brownies in front of everyone. Then of course it’s a mad dash to make it onto the plane before the brownies kick in and I freak out while I’m going through security. It’s so stressful to fly these days.
Once in the air, I take full advantage of the one legal drug that I enjoy almost as much as pot: alcohol. And it’s more plentiful on an airplane than at an Irish wake. It’s an unspoken understanding between prospective travelers and airline companies that the house always wins. You have no choice but to shell out thousands of dollars for safe passage, and in return you will be greeted by a gauntlet of inane check-in procedures, forfeit your basic rights and privacies, get sandwiched into four cubic feet of seating, and be subjected to ungodly amounts of air pressure. They're clearly getting the better end of this financial transaction, so they offer us alcohol to keep us docile and cooperative. The logic I’m assuming is that you can’t be that pissed off if someone’s nice enough to medicate you throughout the whole ordeal.
When the hostess finally comes down the aisle with her bootlegger’s cart full of liquid happy, the THC is already hanging heavy over my senses, which is great, except it usually leads to paranoia. I imagine that the plane will somehow explode, or that the only in-flight movie available will be “Battlefield Earth." To counter these horrible thoughts I knock back a G&T and a Bloody Mary for dinner, and a Bailey’s for dessert. I let the cumulative narcotic haze kick in while I’m watching one of the six horrible fucking films available on the tiny screen implanted in the headrest in front of me. If I haven’t killed myself or the screaming child next to me at this point I’m usually feeling pretty good and kind of sleepy.
After I’ve reached my threshold for mediocre cinema, it’s time to complete my flight routine. I waltz up to the forward lavatory, and once inside I start cranking one out while thinking about the hot stewardess with the drink cart. Granted she's usually a MILF who looks like she's had too much work done, but so are most of the women that Tiger Woods slept with, and I like to emulate successful people. Besides, I fly coach, so the pickings are slim.
I jerk away until I experience a wonderful sensation: an orgasm at 35,000 feet. Nothing feels quite like it. Somehow all the horrible sinus pressure just melts away, I don’t care that I paid a criminal amount of money for the shitty flight I’m on, and I start to feel like I might actually make it to my destination without stabbing the shitty little kid I’m stuck sitting next to. Because of the altitude there’s even less blood in my brain than there normally is when I ejaculate, so it’s a little bit like auto-erotic asphyxiation, minus the part where you die. Had David Carradine flown internationally more often he might still be with us.
After I’m done I clean myself up, drag myself back to my seat, and proceed to pass out for the next eight to ten hours, upon which I arrive at my destination feeling rested, relaxed, and with no memory of what horrors occurred on the plane.
This new anti-wanking law is a blatant assault on my rights, and it makes air travel even more unbearable than it already is. Normally I'd blame the government entirely for this, but there would have been no justification for this law had it not been for 9/11. Let it be known that I’m completely against our criminal oil wars in the Middle East. In light of this new law however, I can’t help but condone the bombing of foreign countries suspected of harboring terrorists for the sole reason that I want retribution for them turning something as beautiful and harmless as masturbating over international waters into a felony.
Vengeance will be mine.
