Monday, March 12, 2007

Supporting Our Troops

First of all, if you're related to me, please don't read this. Mom and Dad - this means you. It could make you apoplectic. And make you wish you still had some modicum of parental control.

So I was on the plane from San Diego to Dulles last Tuesday night. The plane was packed. I was squeezed into a middle seat in cattle class. I'm little, but there's never enough room. We were all squished in together.

In the window seat next to me was this big, athletic guy. He looked military-ish, all clean cut with short hair and big muscles, although he didn't have on a military outfit. Which is also, I realize, known as a uniform. On the other side was a guy very intent on his Economist.

So I was stuck in the middle, unable to stand up every 5 minutes, as I like to do. And I was screwed for entertainment. I had no book. My iPod shuffle only had running music on it - and who wants to listen to the Scissor Sisters while packed in and unable to move? And there was a fucking Will Ferrell movie playing.

Luckily I'd brought a bunch of magazines to catch up on. But there's only so much New Yorker one can read in a row. And so at some point I was just sitting. My military-ish-looking companion and I started chatting. He was really nice, bright, articulate.

When the flight attendant served us beverages, he pulled out Airborne tablets and offered me one. He said, "I used to get sick every time I flew for 20 hours. But now I take these and I'm fine."

So I asked where the Hell he was going that he'd be flying for 20 hours?

He said he was on his way back to Iraq. He was in the Marines. And then he pulled out some Twizzlers and offered me some.

And my first thought was, oh, this poor, sweet guy! He might die! He might, right now, be flying towards his death in W's stupid stupid war. I should at least offer him a hand job.

I told this to a friend of mine, who said, "Why on earth would you think of offering him a hand job?"

"Well, a blow job would just be too intimate."

"This is insane! You don't even usually kiss on first dates! Were you interested in him?"

"Not at all."

She said, "What on earth was this about?"

"I dunno. Community service? Supporting the troops?"

But it's true that I don't even kiss people I barely know, much less do sexual things with strangers. And I hate hand jobs.

So in the end, I offered him one of my New Yorkers.

11 comments:

  1. There are some people who would compare the pleasures of the New Yorker to those of a hand job. Not a lot of people, but some...

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  2. No sane heterosexual male would compare the New Yorker to a hand job by a beautiful woman. The New Yorker is nice and all... but it just doesn't compare.

    He missed out. Poor Marine. ;-)

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  3. You are a true patriot. I hope Betty didn't read this.

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  4. Remind me to make sure you sit by me the next time I fly.

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  5. Alejandra - I agree with you entirely. I thought the New Yorker was a nice offer.

    VVK - True. But he had no idea what was going through my weird little mind.

    DCup - My mom might be OK, but my dad would totally pass out.

    I-66 - Because you really like the New Yorker?

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  6. Ohhh... Now you're going to give guys the idea and before you know it, men everywhere will be sporting crew cuts and claiming they're off to fight in Iraq!

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  7. So...it appears it's really sort of a, uh, crap-shoot with you on planes.

    I can picture the flight attendant appearing out of nowhere, briskly moving down the aisle, handing out mini-umbrellas and handi-wipes to the passengers in the row in front of you before just as quickly disappearing.

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  8. G&D - Goodness! I hadn't thought of that! Well, I like crew cuts, anyway.

    Anon - Oh, no - you're absolutely right! I'm totally going to wind up on some FAA watch list or something, aren't I?

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  9. Uhh... yes. That's exactly why. I really like the New Yorker.

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  10. This really makes me laugh. Not just because of the "parental warning" (which is pretty hilarious). But because I had a very similar inspiration about a month ago, but on a much wider scale (no, of course I didn't act on it).

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