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Wednesday, December 17, 2003


Wright Stuff Dept., Mile High Edition

I'VE NEVER BEEN one for historical tidbits, but today marks the 100th anniversary of the twelve-second first flight of the Wright brothers, ushering in a century of aviation and tiny bags of stale pretzels.

This calls to mind my initiation to the Mile High Club. Like that historic jaunt by the brothers Wright, my induction lasted a mere twelve seconds. Here is a breakdown of that twelve seconds:

:01--:03: Make eye contact with stewardess while standing in line for tiny 747 bathroom. Coquettishly roll eyes towards tiny 747 bathroom.

:04: Very briefly ponder using "hot dog into donut" pantomime as seduction tool, but abandon tactic when stewardess slips into tiny bathroom and beckons with "come hither" pantomime of her own.

:05 -- :06: Fumble with latch in panicky fashion to make sure it's locked, recover by asking stewardess if commode usage sign indicates "flagrante delicto" instead of "ocupado." Realize she speaks no Spanish and that my knowledge of archaic Latin is barely enough to get by.

:07: Engage spring-loaded pants-dropping apparatus I had prepared for just such an occasion.

:08 -- :010: Stewardess hikes up skirt as I fumble with brassiere hooks, which apparently were designed with the uncanny foresight to thwart any possible terrorist airplane-bathroom-sex incursion.

:011: Wonder about stewardess' hopes, dreams, satisfaction with her job, and relationship with her mother, whom I can tell from a faraway look in her eyes has been withdrawn ever since her father ran off with a cocktail waitress in Topeka. Thrust our hips against each other with both hunger and sadness.

:012: Collapse onto cold, brushed-aluminum toilet seat as our passion topples us. Ignore angry knocks of elderly passenger whose adult undergarment has reached capacity due to server too generous with her in-flight beverage service. Lost in the moment and overcome with the import of the situation, mistake tiny bathroom commode for high-end bidet and the flush button for the activator of a cooling-yet-totally-kinky backdoor jetstream. Press button and await carnal sensation like none any airplane bathroom sensualist has ever experienced. Face twists into Guernica-esque tableau of horror as suction force just north of the pull of a black hole yanks at my hindquarters instead of expected paroxysm of ecstasy. In unspeakably violent override of nature's delicate plans for the human reproductive system by the plane's waste-elimination apparatus, ejaculate through human waste-elimination apparatus. Seed ejects from tiny airplane bathroom over North Platte, Nebraska and settles on field, creating improbable but delicious variety of white corn. Quick-thinking stewardess saves me from permanent duodenal damage by triggering flush failsafe mechanism, slaps me for being so stupid, and storms out of tiny bathroom. Collapse to floor as elderly passenger finally gets to change adult undergarment. Think very briefly about "getting inducted" a second time, but realize that it's just the suction trauma talking and that elderly passenger isn't that cute besides. Press "stop" on stopwatch, realize just how much has transpired in a mere twelve seconds. Sigh meaningfully.

About this site

This is the internet home of Mark Lisanti, a Los Angeles writer sometimes known as Bunsen. He is the founding editor of Defamer, a weblog about Hollywood, where he now serves in the nebulous capacity of "editor-at-large."
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