When Sailors Fly
So just to be clear, I really, really, really, don’t like flying. Something about going 600 miles per hour, in something as thick as two beer cans, a few miles above sea level, where you can’t smoke. So any time I fly I get there two hours early. One hour for security and another hour for drinking as much rum as possible. When I board my flight, my drinking arm has been in the upright and lock position. So I’m sitting in my seat slugging rum and cokes as fast as my liver will allow when I realize there are only five people on the flight. The service is amazing and I sober up long enough to realize that the stewardess are chilling in the isles passing drinks down a line straight to me. I thank god for small miracles and I head to the head (bathroom to sailors), to empty my bilge (pee), to make room for more fuel (rum). Dropping your ballast is pooing to those wondering. Before going to the head I turn to one of the stewardess and say one more rum and coke please. After dropping a gallon of rum I emerged from the head and thrust before my face is a perfectly manicured hand holding a rum and coke at eye level. Is this love I thought?
I ask the girls where all the passengers are and they remind me I live in the murder capital of America. No one flys in or out. I agree with this rationalization and we struck up a conversation. Since there were no passengers convinced the girls to have some drinks with me. A few drinks later and I have a revolutionary idea. To cover the little counter top in the kitchen with empty miny bottles. With the help of four good looking stewardess; and the game is afoot.
I would like to point out that this flight was the short leg of a cross country flight lasting about an hour and a half. The game started thirty minutes into the flight, and the math on how many bottles is mathematically staggering. A three foot by two foot counter covered in miny bottles. Those woman could drink. I was drunk.
The next thing I know I’m on my next flight headed to my destination. My lay over is a complete mystery to me. Only two more hours of beer can aerobatics I thought. My hopes and prayers went out to those girls on their next flight giving the pre flight instructions drunk. “Your emergency exits are around. There are oxygen masks that will be deployed in the event of an emergency or oxygen party. The cushions your sitting on can be used as a flotation device. Don’t worry about people farting on them for the past three years because this flight is over land. If we hit anything it’s going to be a mountain. In the event of a crash landing don’t forget to place head between knees in crash position, and kiss ass good bye. The sky martial is a post traumatic stress patient just back from Afghanistan His bullets can and will penetrate the hull causing explosive decompression, killing us all. The pilot was just caught cheating on his wife, has lost the will to live, and a six pack deep. Finally, his plane hasn’t had a proper maintenance in six months. Thanks for flying shitty airs now sit down and shut the fuck up the fasten seat belt light is on.”
This humorous day dream was rudely interrupted by the pilot’s voice over the intercom saying “Sorry for the interruption folks but we will be experiencing some turbulence for the remainder of this flight.” I just got on this flying beer can and now your telling me it’s a martini shaker. How will I be served rum I thought. This realization came perfectly as the drink cart goes by being pushed by a scared stuartist. Now I like to think I know when to drink heavily. This is when the people who fly every day look scared. I stiff arm the drink cart, and remove two cans of coke and three minis of rum. The guy says sir we are not serving anymore and I reply with a twenty and the simple comment “I really hate flying”. Approving my prescription he snags my twenty and runs to his seat. For the next two hours I was treated to a very difficult game. Drink Rum and Coke while your mode or transportation varies in altitude by hundreds of feet in seconds. I called the game Turbulence So after trying to drink in a paint can shaker, I reached my destination, threw up in the parking lot of the air port, and vowed to take trains or boats from now on.
I guess I’m supposed to end with conquer your fears, statistically flying is safer then driving, but I just don’t like planes. I think we should be honest with ourselves. Know where your limits are and say planes and spiders I get a pass on. Apartment fires, SWAT, cancer, finding bodies, armed people breaking in, saving woman from being raped and sailing in hurricanes I got… But, forget planes and spiders that shit is scary. Your two passes I leave to you.