Napalm and Silly Putty (21 page)

In the old days I always did my pot-smoking in the forward lavatory, because I fantasized that the mirror was two-way, and the crew could see me. I can’t help it, I just like an audience. But I knew my manners; I always offered the crew a hit or two. I’d make little gestures with the joint toward the mirror. “C’mon, boys, lighten up. Life isn’t all azimuth indicators.” Never any takers; real straight folks up there.

Now, I’m sure all of you high-minded, non-chance-takers out there are thinkin’, “What about the smell? Doesn’t the bathroom fill up with pot smoke?” Well, folks, this is where a background in physics comes in handy. Follow me closely on this.

Before the airlines introduced those fancy new toilets, the ones that tear your genitals off when they flush, the old toilets, in order to control odors, had a slow, steady stream of air that flowed from the lavatory itself down into the bowl. And you could increase the speed of that airflow by simply sitting on the toilet, thereby reducing the size of the air passage down to that little wedge-shaped space between your thighs. Narrower channel, stronger flow. And your cheeks acted as a gasket, sealing off the rest of the opening.

Then, if you carefully pointed a lit cigarette down into the toilet between your thighs, all the smoke got sucked away into that mysterious, blue-chemical void. No smoke, no smell, no problem. By the way, I cannot overemphasize the importance of the word carefully in the above sentence.

Of course, not all planes had equally strong airflow, so a system test was always in order. A good physicist never proceeds without checking conditions. In this case, we use a common match. A lit match, quickly extinguished, produces a small, visible wisp of smoke. If the match is held deep in the bowl, one can observe whether that smoke is sucked straight downward or rises gently back into the lav. In the former case all systems are “go,” in the latter case the No Smoking sign is wisely observed. Unless, of course, we decide to go to Plan B. One must always have a backup.

And so, we turn our attention to the sink. The sink is a magnificent device: it fills with water, holds it awhile, and then, when the drain is released, it empties. And on an airplane, when it empties it is helped along by what? Why, it’s helped along by our old friend, Mr. Air Pressure! And, whaddaya know, just by pressing down on the drain-release plunger we can produce an even stronger flow of air than we can with the toilet, because the sink drain is so much smaller. A quick test with a lit match confirms this.

But remember, the drain-release lever is spring-loaded, and therefore if the airflow is to remain constant, the plunger must remain depressed and open during the entire period the joint is lit. And that means we have to prop the drain cap open by wedging some object underneath it. A matchbook cover, or perhaps one of those little bars of soap the airlines used to leave near the sink. Isn’t science fun?

All right, gang, we’re almost ready to light up and get wasted, but there is still one further consideration. If you’re going to smoke a joint while seated on the toilet (as opposed to standing up, leaning down into the sink), at some point, you have to decide whether or not you should pretend to be taking a shit. In other words, whether or not to pull your pants down.

If you really have to take a shit at the time, that’s great; you’re all set. But if you don’t, you have a decision to make. Because, although ethically there is nothing wrong with taking a fake shit, in a practical sense if the crew thinks you’ve been in there too long, and they decide to break down the door, you want to be sure that when they arrive you appear to be taking a genuine shit. Don’t forget, they’re going to check. And nobody wants to be arrested for shitting with his pants on, am I right? Although personally I can tell you I don’t care what the charge is as long as I get rid of the joint. Besides, shitting with your pants on is only a misdemeanor. And in my case it would be a first offense.

Which brings us back to my own personal airline-bathroom experience. One problem I always had was that after I got high I would wind up staying in the bathroom way too long. Pot brought out the superorganizer in me, so once I’d had a few good, deep hits and was securely locked in, I tended to go to work.

First thing I did was open up all those little compartments under the sink and rearrange the supplies stored in there. I’d restack all the sanitary napkins according to strength: regular, super, jumbo, teeny-bopper. I’d remove the outer wrappers from the spare toilet paper, making it readily available in the event some nasty bacterium found its way into the first-class entrees. Then I’d refill the paper towel dispenser, being careful to pack it so tightly that the towels would not come out without shredding. And—again, the old days—I’d make sure there were plenty of those little bars of soap lying out for people to steal. In the occasional instance when cologne, aftershave, and other amenities were made available, I would be sure to take them home for further quality-control testing. Ford is not the only place where quality is job one.

Then, my chores done, I would relax somewhat and reflect on the environment around me. I’d become fascinated by the little slot they had for used razor blades, and I wondered whether or not the blades actually dropped out of the airplane and fell on people’s houses, or if they just rusted and rotted somewhere behind the wall. I’d read the various signs posted in three languages and try to translate precisely the corresponding words in each language. Then, finally, a long, lingering look in the mirror, usually resulting in the discovery of some hideous facial flaw, previously undetected.

And then, suddenly, the little lighted sign would flash on telling me to Return to Cabin! Return to Cabin! Return to Cabin!

I’d think, Oh shit, trouble in the cabin. They need me. I should never have left them alone. I’d better see what’s up. And then on my way out, I’d spot one last sign: Please Leave Lavatory Clean for the Next Passenger. Well, that’s all I needed to see. And because I’m really into detail now—and even though I didn’t make a mess—I’m experiencing “felon’s guilt.” And I decide to clean up for the next person.

I rinse and dry and thoroughly polish the entire sink area, scouring all the burst-pimple residue off the mirror, and I even wash off the dried, gray dirt bubbles left on the soap by the previous person. Now I’m gettin’ into it! Pretty soon I find myself washing the walls and ceiling, throwing open the door, and yelling, “You people got some Spic and Span and a hard-bristle brush out there? I think I can get these blue stains off the toilet!”

And suddenly I realize my fantasy world has collapsed; the real world is watching. Adjusting quickly, and relying on my identity as a comedian, I chuckle weakly and say, “You gotta clean up for the next person.”

Then, as the fat woman waiting to take a shit passes me on her way into the john, I hiss, “Don’t fuck it up, lady. I worked my ass off in there.” And back to my seat I go, secure in the knowledge that, once again, thanks to my highly developed work ethic, along with some great Humboldt weed, I’ve managed to make the skies a little friendlier.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\\Documents%20and%20Settings\\Dom\\Desktop\\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\\Napalm_body-contents.html” \l “TOC-84” ??SHORT TAKES ?

You know one of the biggest rip-offs in the world? Flowers. They grow free all over the world, and yet we pay for them. And then they die. That seems strange. Flowers are one of the few things we buy, bring home, watch die, and we don’t ask for our money back. Normally, we’d be screaming at a merchant over something like that: “Hey, what kind of shit is this? Gimme my money back! The fuckin’ things keeled over right on the piano!”

The caterpillar does all the work, but the butterfly gets all the publicity.

Tits always look better in a pink sweater.

You know what you don’t see enough of on television? A good parachute accident. It’s kinda fun.

Ask your dry cleaner if he can remove the stains from one pair of pants and put them in another. He should be able to do that for the same amount of money. While you’re in there, ask if he can remove semen from a wedding veil. That’s the test of a really good dry cleaner.

To me, fast food is when a cheetah eats an antelope.

Two men whose names you see a lot on air-conditioner dials: Norm and Max.

Have you ever been kissing someone, and one of you has a snot that’s whistling? It takes your mind off the sex, because it requires a three-step solution. First of all, you have to figure out whose nose it’s in. Then you have to determine which nostril. Finally, someone has to dig in there and, if not remove it completely, at least push it to one side so it doesn’t whistle anymore. By the way, during all this activity the man usually loses his hard-on.

A crumb is a great thing: If you break a crumb in half you don’t get two half-crumbs, you get two crumbs. Doesn’t that violate some law of physics?

I think I am, therefore, I am. I think.

Have you ever noticed that when you’re torturing a person, after a while you get real tired and you don’t know what to do to him next? Then you think of something, and you sort of get your energy back?

Any man with a small moustache wearing a bow tie and a loud vest is an asshole.

A cat will blink when struck with a hammer.

Reception lines would be a lot more interesting if instead of shaking hands, people greeted each other with a kick in the groin.

The reason the mainstream is thought of as a stream is because of its shallowness.

Actual bumper sticker: HORN BROKE—WATCH FOR FINGER.

Fun at the ballpark: Y’ever notice a lot of guys bring a glove to the game to catch a foul ball? Never mind that, bring a bat! When a foul ball comes flying toward you, BAM! Hit it back to the players. Everyone will sense you’re a fun fan. They’ll be glad they came to the ballpark on straitjacket night.

I read somewhere that for the average person fourteen farts a day are considered normal. Based on these figures, and judging from my own output, I have to assume there are millions of people who never fart at all.

I don’t have a fear of heights. I do, however, have a fear of falling from heights.

Isn’t it a good feeling when you read the tabloids and realize that a lot of famous people are just as fucked up as you are?

The justice system should have a penalty whereby they send you to prison, and for ten years the guards take turns doing that Three Stooges, jabbing-two-fingers-in-your-eyes thing. I think that would straighten a lot of guys out.

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I noticed in the newspaper that track and field has an event called the women’s pole vault. It makes me wonder: With all the options available to her in this age, how does a young woman get interested in pole-vaulting? It seems like a bizarre choice. By the way, I hope you noticed I completely ignored the obvious opportunity for a cheap phallic joke.

If I ever lose my mind I hope some honest person will find it and take it to Lost and Found.

In some hotels they give you a little sewing kit. You know what I do? I sew the towels together. One time I sewed a button on a lampshade. I like to leave a mark.

What’s wrong with America: There are schools in Fairfax County, Virginia, where kids are not allowed to win soccer games. Whenever a team gets two goals ahead they have to give up one player. Pathetic.

The Asian country known as Mongolia used to be called Outer Mongolia. And just below the Outer Mongolian border with China there was an autonomous region called Inner Mongolia. And since each of them had its own inner and outer regions, that means that at one time there existed, fairly close to one another, an “outer Inner Mongolia” and an “inner Outer Mongolia.” I like that sort of thing. I like picturing the road signs and all the people taking wrong turns.

When someone with an artificial heart dies, I think they should take out the heart, hook it up to an artificial body, and let it go at that.

I never bite my nails; I consider it a health risk. Instead, I twist my nails off with pliers and burn away any excess tissue with a cigarette lighter.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\\Documents%20and%20Settings\\Dom\\Desktop\\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\\Napalm_body-contents.html” \l “TOC-85” ??SPORTS SHOULD BE FIXED:?FIRST HALF ?

Everyone knows by now, sports is big business. But the major sports have grown boring and predictable, and the public has become jaded. So I’m suggesting a few changes that would add excitement to the games and increase their entertainment value.

Take Me Out to the Hospital

Baseball has one major problem: not enough serious injuries. A lot of baseball’s so-called injuries are just “a strained this” or “a sore whatchamacallit.” In today’s culture that’s not good enough. Fans are crying out for someone to be hurt really badly.

So, to raise the injury level, what I would do is place thirty to forty land mines in the outfield; the kind of mines that spray thousands of tiny nails when they explode. Not only would this add excitement, it would also provide a refreshing element of surprise: “There’s a high, lazy fly ball to right field. O’Neill drifts over, pats his glove . . .” BOOOOOOM! “Holy fuckin’ shit! Oh, good Lord! Oh, precious, precious Lord!”

Baseball is also accused of being too slow. Here’s something that would not only speed up the game but also provide a welcome opportunity for serious injuries. Like most good ideas, it’s uncomplicated: if the pitcher hits the batter with the ball, the batter is out. That’s it. A simple idea, but it could make quite a difference.

And maybe if the ball hits the batter in the head it could be a double play. I don’t know, I’m not an expert on rules. But it’s certainly worth a try. And just think: a good “control pitcher” could have a perfect game just by hitting twenty-seven guys in a row. In fact, if you had two quality pitchers out there, the fans could be out of that ballpark in half an hour, on their way home to watch football on TV. Where they could see some serious goddamn injuries.

Gettin’ My Kicks

Now, football. For many of you fans, football is already a perfect game. Its particular combination of speed, strategy, and brute force seems just right for the American psyche. But even a well-thought-out game like football can use a little help from a fun-loving guy like me.