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.
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