Inappropriate Laughter

I annoyed the crap out of the upstairs neighbor tonight. He's back after a couple of weeks of being away from Chez Merde. His absence brought blissful, blissful silence. But now, the pounding, swearing, and door-slamming have all returned in full force. Ugh. I did not miss him.

I called my sister the social worker tonight and we got each other laughing like idiots about all sorts of incredibly crude stuff, like "Jackass 2". We watched that a couple of Christmases ago - eating carry-out steak from some place in Iowa in front of the boob tube at her house. We laughed so hard that night, I couldn't breathe and she thought she was going to toss her cookies.

Guilty pleasures. What can I say?

Her Internet access is spotty at home, so I read her some entries from this great LiveJournal post the Sasquatch sent to me a few days ago. I laughed so hard, I wheezed as I read the insane "Engrish" to her. And Angry Indian Doctor stomped on his floor, rattling my ceiling and windows. Of course, it wasn't even 9:30 at night then. He usually waits until 11:30 or so, himself, to start swearing up a storm or fighting with his wife. Recently, he and the missus developed a new habit: loud, carpet-burn-inducing makeup sex on the living room floor. It's quite the accompaniment to my evening television viewing. Somehow, "Dirty Jobs with Mike Rowe" seem even more dirty when people are grunting, squealing and thumping around just above your head.

Rug burns. {{shudder}}

But even when the cranky man upstairs is pounding around (you may read "pounding" any way you want, kids!) there is something healing in a good belly laugh, and I had a few of those tonight. Who cares if the peeps upstairs have to hear me for once!

And, remarkably, my spine isn't screaming at me.

Good enough for a Monday, I reckon.

Jag-off

Thursday night, I stopped by the CVS in downtown Bethesda to pick up a box of Nice & Easy 114, the current (non-freaky red) cheap hair color of choice. I snagged a parking space next to the two handicapped spots and went in. As I scanned small boxes for the right color, I overheard snippets of a loud conversation between a couple perusing the Easter candy aisle.

"But do you think he's really handicapped?"

"It's just wrong."

"Yeah, no shit! Nice car, though..."

I assumed someone with no handicapped plates had pulled into one of the few designated spots at the pharmacy. Wouldn't be the first time that had happened here in the land of entitlement. I thought nothing of it and paid for my box of chemicals.

When I got to my car, I saw there was a very spiffy Jaguar parked next to me, occupying a handicapped spot. Indeed, there was a handicapped tag hanging from the rear view mirror. An older gentleman sat behind the wheel, the driver's door open. He had one leg stretched out the door, and, though I tried not to look, I could not help but see he had a serious palsy in one arm.

Or so I thought.

As I did the "healing spine sideways shimmy" to get into the Crapmobile Mark II, I got a better look.

Nope. No palsy.

The guy was going to town, whacking his willy in his fancy-schmantzy car. Polishing the wood. Beating his well-aged meat. Wanking with abandon.

I could not help it. I just stared, my jaw scraping the ground.

The onanistic Jag-ster finally noticed he had an audience and tried to stuff his member back in his trousers and get his leg back in his car. People, this parking space is directly under a big light right on a busy section of Wisconsin - there is no way you can masturbate in your luxury car a few feet from the entrance of this CVS and NOT be seen.

For once, I didn't say anything. I was just astounded and drove off, shaking my head. I know being affluent is no guarantee of having common sense, but there clearly had to be something wrong with this dude. At least I understood the conversation of the candy aisle couple.

What the hell is the problem with this CVS? Is it a second Pike Hellmouth, like the 7-11 by White Flint? I'm starting to think so. And I think I'll start using Purell after touching any products in this particular CVS location...

The Perils of Falling Asleep on the Sofa

I was just going to watch Torchwood on BBC America and go to bed. Honest. Just an hour of the bisexual alien hunting hijinks that go down in Cardiff, and then off to bed. (The alien hunters are bisexual, not the aliens. No, wait, at least one of the aliens was bisexual, too - it's definitely one of the most sexually progressive hours of science fiction on TV...)

But then, I had a big blink. The sofa was comfy, the room was warm, and I blinked. For four hours. Yeesh. I've been blinking a lot since I got sick over the holidays. I know conventional wisdom says it takes three weeks to solidify a habit. I think I was illin' long enough to have this habit solidified like a hospital cup of Jell-o. As habits go, it's a bad one, and I have to stop it. I think tonight will help me get over this, though.

It's a little sad when a single, breathing, hotblooded woman falls asleep on Torchwood, despite the dual hotness of the show's lead John Barrowman and guest star James "Spike" Marsters. But that's what I did. (Fun fact: John Barrowman, who is openly gay, was up for the role of Will in "Will and Grace", but producers felt he was "too straight." Go figure.)

I woke up at 4:20 this morning, with BBC America still chugging away on the Trinitron. Problem? It was a rerun of "The Graham Norton Show" and, dear god, an audience member was getting a "back, sack, and crack" waxing. Aiiiiieeee, my eyes!

Let me tell you, there's nothing quite like the wake up call of seeing a stranger having his scrotum stretched and slathered in wax. Ash Wednesday? Lent? The power of religious obligation and unshakeable faith? Fugetaboutit! It's the middle-of-the-night look of anguish on the face of someone having his nether regions depilated on a brightly lit 27-inch screen that's guaranteed to make you change your life.

No more sofa surfing. No more snoozing on the La-Z-Boy. No more waking up at the, uh, crack of doom still dressed for the day.

There's my Lenten sacrifice. No more late night TV leaving me a slug in the living room!

I'm pretty sure Jesus would be pleased.

Unless he's a Graham Norton fan.

Pervy Searches: New Contestant, Come On Down!

Lately, my blog stats have shown an increase in pervy searches from random horny visitors in the Middle East and the subcontinent. I wish to congratulate my random visitors in Europe and the Americas (for the most part) for being a little less sexually repressed. Y'all generally aren't finding me on Google while searching for "naked arab women" and such. (However, when y'all are doing pervy searches, it's usually for something really... specialized... and usually for things that would make me give you a wide berth if we met in public. And I'd use a lot of Purell if we shook hands. Just sayin'.)

But today is special. Today, to my knowledge, marks the first time I've had a visitor from (as it's labeled in Statcounter) Iran, Islamic Republic of. And how did this upstanding pillar of Islam reach me? Why through a Google search, of course! Looking for... "big and hot."

Now, to give my Iranian friend the benefit of the doubt, he may have been looking up deserts. They are, certainly, both big and hot. Maybe he has an interest in jet engines. Goodness, they're big, and they get awfully hot, I'm sure, after a long flight. Heck, maybe he was just researching Iranian president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. He's big on the world scene and a hot button topic for political pundits everywhere.

But I doubt it.

Truth is, too, "big and hot" is such a nebulous term, I'm not sure if this dude was looking for women or men. Usually my pervy searchers who are looking for chicks just say "chicks" or "boobs" (not sure if "boobs" is a well-known term in Iran), so I'd like to think this is my first gay Iranian visitor. I'm being sexist, I know. I suppose this could be a woman searching for something "big and hot" but, again, I doubt it.

Now, how this guy decided, out of all the gazillion spots you could hit via Google to come to my blog, I simply can't fathom. I did a little experiment just now to see what I got on Google typing in "big and hot" (without quotation marks) and the first link that appeared? I swear to God, it's something called "mrbigdickshotchicks.com" and no, I did not click on it. That's really not something I'm prepared for at 8:15 in the morning. Not without coffee first, at least.

I went ten pages in on the Google search, out of curiosity, and I wasn't there. I did find a recipe for something called the Big Thaw Hot Chocolate Toddy (which looks pretty damn decadent and possibly could put you in a diabetic coma) and a discussion of the Big Bang (not of the variety our Iranian friend wanted, I think) but no links to this blog. Maybe if I'd had an infinite amount of time and an infinite number of monkeys on laptops, I could have found the link. When you search for "big and hot" on Google, there are more than 42 million possible links. And most of it is for, unsurprisingly, porn. Aaaand hot tub resorts in California. Yet, this guy, hunkered down in his little repressed corner of the world, clicked on a link to this mindless entry: http://www.merujo.com/2005/07/hot-morning-ramble.html - poor bastard probably thought "ramble" was a slang term for "insanely amazing booty call." Right now, he is likely cursing me under his breath for wasting his precious dial-up time while some web-monitoring Iranian thought police schlub is marking me down as an evil infidel and trying to figure out how to access the secret messages in the non-playing audio file. (Alas, poor AudioBlogger, I do miss thee!)

Gay Iranian Man: I hope you find something "big and hot." And honestly, I hope someday you're able to find it in real life - safely and without fear. Until then, feel free to drop by. I'm afraid there won't be anything of that ilk here, but you're still welcome.

As for the perv who's always looking for "sex with grandmother in church"? You, on the other hand, have got to get a new hobby. Now. I mean it. Go!

Let's all come together

For those not living in or around this nation's capital, lemme tell you - DC is troubled. We've got crime by the buckets, plus corruption, foolish jaywalkers, angry bike couriers, those people living in the White House, classical music critics taking e-mail swipes at poor, defenseless Mayor for Life Marion Barry, and, sadly, one of the highest HIV/AIDS infection rates in the whole country.

Lovely.

To try to combat the spread of HIV, the District government has been passing out free condoms. It's a nice gesture, but the Chinese-manufactured, paper-wrapped rubbers haven't been getting a thumbs-up (or, uh, anything up, for that matter) from potential users. People are concerned about the easily ripped paper packets rendering the goods useless. You really want to rely on a prophylactic that came out of a crappy, torn paper package? No, thanks! (I'd put more trust in those crazy Polish monster finger puppet rubbers I found in a kiosk in Moscow once.) I'd love to know who the brainchild was on this paper wrapping job -- being environmentally friendly is one thing, but this is pretty dumb. Foil is your friend.

According to this article on WTOP.com, more than 100,000 of the freebie condoms have been returned for a variety of reasons - the paper wrapper, the hard-to-read expiration date, and the fact that these guys aren't exactly locally manufactured. Let's face it, this year in particular I'd pass on Chinese-made condoms. I mean, if they've got factories coating toys with the date-rape drug, can you imagine what could serving as lube on these guys? Yeesh.

But my favorite reason for people being suspicious of the free willy warmers? The tacky design work and slogan!

Yes, it may be that some people are returning free condoms because the graphic design work is cheesy and the slogan is... well... you make the call:

It is Our Nation's Capital.

If you're going to come together, might as well be here...

I understand the importance of the District's efforts to curb the growth of new HIV infections. It's a serious crisis for an already troubled city. But I have to appreciate that some people, no matter how desperately poor - or how desperately horny - are willing to say no to free love gloves because they have a better sense of visual style and marketing language than the dorks who came up with the packaging.

Free Condoms: Zero
Good Taste: One

Adventures in Urban Cinema (a continuing series)

Some of my colleagues are off at the Loews in Georgetown, catching a first-day showing of the latest Harry Potter film. I'll go check it out after the 20th, when I get paid next. The cupboards be pretty bare until then, kids.

I tried - unsuccessfully - today to share with my coworkers the story of the last time I went to see a Harry Potter movie at this particular upscale multiplex. For some odd reason, none of them wanted to hear my horror story! It is a fairly grotesque tale, and I think these ladies will be glad to read this epic here tomorrow, the day after their Georgetown jaunt.

Generally, I'm not really wild about the urban movie experience. But sometimes, when you're downtown and you get an undeniable hankering to see a flick, what can you do?

I had nearly forgotten about my urban Harry Potter nightmare until today - must be selective memory trying to save me the shuddering recollection. I think it must have been two films back, shortly after Loews opened their K Street location. I had an afternoon off work, and I decided it would be nice to catch a twilight show, right before the prices went up. The theater was nearly empty, and I swear it still had the movie theater equivalent of "new car smell."

I was actually reluctant to give Loews any money after my last experience at the Uptown, wherein a rat decided to enjoy my popcorn while another hovered at my feet. That was five minutes into a weekday matinee of "Return of the King" and found me screaming "RAT! RAAAAT!" as I bolted for the lobby. The concession employees didn't care, and the woman who was, I assume, a manager took her own sweet time coming down to talk to me. She, too, was unimpressed with my rat-tastic tale.

It took a great deal of effort to get a refund on my ticket and my rat-nibbled popcorn. A phone call to Loews' corporate office in New York got me an unsatisfactory non-apology from some schmuck who told me that rats were just a part of urban life and that the best restaurants in DC probably had rats in their kitchens. Nice.

End results:

1)I called the DC Health Department, they quickly inspected and - get this - actually called me back to affirm signs of rodents on the premises and told me the Uptown had two weeks to fix the situation. Wow! (FYI, my complaint is on record - name, date, the whole nine yards.)

2)The NYC schmucktard promised me two tickets to any Loews in the country for my trouble. Gee, whiz! Two tickets in exchange for a rat in my popcorn! Isn't that awesome!

3)Weeks and weeks later, the tickets still hadn't shown up. It took a couple of angry calls and e-mails to finally get those damn tickets. I wonder, if I had been a member of Congress or the press - or had a real blog back then - would the response have been different?

I've never been back to the Uptown. Sure, I miss that big ol' screen, but I really can't take a chance at having my ankles nibbled just because I like the size of the image. In the end, I figured the Georgetown location was new and clean and likely had no vermin.

Holy crap, was I ever wrong! The only thing is, the vermin in this theater walked on two legs.

Now, none of what I'm going to describe for you could even be remotely blamed on management at the theater. Part of it definitely can be blamed on one worker, and the other part? Dear god, it's just a matter of people with no class whatsoever.

Let's set the stage: I limp on in to the theater and find a nice seat in Row Six or Seven. (I once briefly dated a weird guy who would only sit in Rows Five through Seven because he was certain it was the only place with decent sound. I guess this stuck with me. Go figure.) A handful of other kid-movie-lovin' adults were scattered in the second tier behind me. Ahhh, heaven! A peaceful theater!

Then, shortly before the previews started, the front exit door to the left of the screen opened, and a theater employee looked around carefully. He opened the door wider and ushered in two homeless men. The stench they gave off wafted back and silently I begged, "Pleaseohpleaseohplease, do not let them sit near me!"

Was I mean to think that? Perhaps. But no one wants to endure two hours of odorama, unless it's a John Waters film, and you've specifically paid for that.

Of course, they sat down immediately in front of me. One of them had a two-liter Country Time lemonade bottle completely filled with what smelled like cheap malt liquor. Lovely.

Ah - I remember which movie it was now! "The Prisoner of Azkaban!" Why do I suddenly remember this? Because, when a character yelled, "Sirius Black has escaped from Azkaban Prison!" one of the homeless guy yelled back, "Sirius Black? Sirius BLACK? Why ain't it 'Sirius White', muthafucka?!?" (That actually was the sole funny highlight of the whole event.)

A few minutes into the film, two women entered the theater. They were large ladies - just about my size - one wore a mini skirt and a glittery t-shirt about 8 sizes too small and the other, dressed in an oversized pair of "Come On Eileen" overalls, was having an animated, LOUD obscenity-laced conversation on her cell phone. Audience attempts to quiet her only got hissed obscenity in return from the cellular latecomer.

I tried to ignore it. Really. And for me, to ignore someone on a cell phone in a theater is quite a feat of control.

But then, something happened.

The other woman started to moan. And moan. Aaaand moan. And breathlessly say things like, "Oh yeah, baby. Fuck yeah! Unh-huh, you know that's how I like it!" While Harry and his schoolfriends battled the forces of darkness on screen, someone else was fighting with a primal force within. I turned around and saw something I hope to never see again: the overall'ed woman demonstrating her multitasking abilities. She still yammered away on the cell phone, clutched in her right hand, but her left hand was snaked into the wide open crotch of the other woman, who was now writhing in ecstasy in her seat, her panties on the floor, hanging around one tensed ankle.

Whoaaaakay, kids! Enough!

That was it. I was up and out of my seat and headed for the lobby. I looked for a manager (that is, anyone in a jacket) and told the first guy I saw about both the employee who had brought in the stinky drinky duo and the lesbian hand puppet show in the first row of the second tier.

He didn't believe me. "That would never happen in this theater, madame!" He would not come with me. Fuming, I returned to the theater, where the cell phone magician was still performing her talking while engaging in press-the-digit-in-the-indentation act. (Yeah, that was a long way to go for a "prestidigitation" joke. So, sue me.) I went right back out and made the irritated manager come in with me. Within seconds, the live sex show was canceled, much to the anger of the participants. But the smelly guys remained.

When I got back to my seat, my popcorn was gone. My seatmates were chowing down on it. One turned back to me, shaking my near-empty popcorn bag and said, "Oh hey, baby - you want this back?"

I declined.

And I moved to a different row.

When the movie ended and the lights came up, the dynamic duo had finished off not only my popcorn, but their whole two-liter bottle of booze. They strolled up to the seats abruptly vacated by the lesbian couple and - god help me - sniffed the chairs. One guy started yelling, "HEY! Do y'all smell lesbians? Cuz I smell lesbians! Whoooo! Everyone should love lesbians, y'all!"

Well, hey, for the record, I'm all for loving lesbians, for sure. I'm a very pro-GLBT straight girl, after all. I'm just not for lesbians loving lesbians - or anyone, uh, loving anyone, for that matter - in movie theaters. At least, for Pete's sake, not in the first row next to the big aisle, and not with the loud moaning. Jeeeez.

Yes, my friends, there is nothing like the innocence of a children's movie matinee.

When I left the theater, the angry lesbians were sitting in the park across the street. They saw me and were pissed off. Really pissed off. I made it to the parking garage really fast and just sat in my car for a while, pondering how surreal the whole afternoon had been.

Turning onto Wisconsin and heading home, I almost hit Al Sharpton, resplendent in flowing grey silk, jaywalking in front of me.

"Now," I thought to myself, "this is officially the most fucked-up, surreal day ever."

I went home and related this story to a friend out in L.A. She reworked the Loews jingle they used to play before the movies started: "Thank you for coming to Loews/Sit back and relax/Enjoy the sex show!"

And so it shall forever be in my mind.

So, take this as a cautionary tale, my friends. If you put your bag of popcorn in the seat next to you in your local DC cinema, just remember: you have no idea what or who was there before you set down that salty bag of carbs. Maybe a rat... maybe a horny chick with a cell phone...

I really don't think there's any five-second rule that applies in this case. Just sayin'...

Quick - where's my Purell?!?

Bad Ideas in Lust

Attention, good people of Montgomery County! For the benefit of all, let me share this small gem of advice: do not have sex in your car in well-lit fast food outlet parking lots.

Pretty please?

Last night, I was struck with really bad insomnia. I told my friend Lunesse that I was stressed about upcoming work deadlines, stressed about money (as usual), stressed about relationships (or a lack thereof), stressed about the book, and just generally having some sort of sticky existential crisis.

Around midnight I went out for a short drive to Wendy's. Why Wendy's, especially considering that their choice of advertising music kinda grosses me out right now? Well, because they serve diet Crack on tap. And, since I couldn't sleep, some diet Crack and a quick read of the new issue of Entertainment Weekly under the suburban stars sounded appealing to my ailing brain. Big, sweaty, icy cup in hand, I pulled into a well-lit spot in the Wendy's lot to read some Hollywood news. Windows down, the night wasn't too bad. I played some Split Enz on the Podlet and took sips of the caffeinated super drug, guaranteed to keep me up for a couple more hours (it did - got to bed at 4 this morning.) It was as pleasant as a lonely night at the drive-thru can be.

But then, my car started to vibrate.

I looked at my Coke Zero and watched the surface shimmy, like the early warning of a T-Rex approaching through the concrete jungle. But then, the tuba kicked in. And the cheesy trumpets. Crap. The parking lot had suddenly been turned into the Radio El Zol version of the Headbangers Ball. Oompa, oompa, oompa, oompa. My car doors thrummed with the sound. One song ended and the next began - the same rhythm, the same melody. I swear, I could not tell them apart. I refused to pay attention - after all I had important reading to do, by God!

Then, something odd happened. The rhythm of the music slowed. The oompa was still there, but... it seemed familiar. I turned off the Enz and listened hard.

Dear lord, it was a Spanish language oompa version of "I'll Sail This Ship Alone." The Beautiful South, as performed by some Mexican or Central American dance band?!? WTF? I couldn't help it, I had to go and check this out. As annoying as the loud music had been, I had to find out what group was torturing this lovely song.

I revved up the Crapmobile and motored over to pay a visit on the revelers a few spaces away.

Aaaaaand, they were having sex.

Directly under a bright street lamp, right by the front door of Wendy's, the pick-up truck-cum-danceclub was rocking and grooving and steaming. And, oh God, they had a window open through which a bare butt was rising and falling in a universally recognizable rhythm.

Aaaaaah, my eyes! Dios mio!

I pulled out of the lot, crying "Aww, ewwwww, eeewwwww!" over and over again.

Somehow, the Beautiful South will never be quite the same. {{shudder, shudder}}

Fast forward to this afternoon. After a fairly uncomfortable six hours of dreamless sleep, I got up to meet with a friend who runs a local craft shop. She needs help next weekend at a big trade show, and I am happy to help her out. I'm going to run her "make and take" table - showing folks how to use the craft items they sell. I get store freebies for my efforts and get to spend a day playing creative teacher. Not too shabby.

Leaving the shop, I decided to hit a local drive-thru for a cool drink. The weather here has gone from unseasonably cool to super hot overnight. I tend to fade in 90F temperatures. So, I drive up, get my lovely sugar free cup (of mostly ice) and stop in a shady spot for a moment. I'm not there thirty seconds before I hear a woman scream "HELP!" I look through the windows of a truck separating me from the next car and see a woman seemingly struggling with a man, who is all over her, changing positions, holding her face. I pull out my cell phone and swing the Crapmobile out of my space to see what's going on - I didn't do this on foot because, with the numb leg, I'm still slower than mud, and if someone's being violent, I'm not fast enough to get away to save myself.

I whip up next to the bouncing sedan only to see the woman giggling like an idiot, yelling, again, "HELP! HELP! Damn, Jimmy! We can't f*ck in the front seat! The brake is stuck up my ass!" I think this is the moment when Jimmy noticed someone (me, my jaw in my lap) had pulled up next to the car where he was trying very hard to perform acts better done in slightly larger spaces. "OH SHIT!" Jimmy bellowed and struggled to get his pants back on. The woman just laughed and laughed and laughed. "I'm okay, I'm okay!" She cackled and waved at me between her loud laughs, but never made an effort to sit back up in her seat. "Holy shit, I told you we shouldn't do this here!"

I finally blinked and said, "Uh, there's a Red Roof Inn next door, you know." As I drove away, I heard Jimmy mutter, "Dumbass - you can't yell 'help' - we're at a damn strip mall." I could still hear her laughing as I left.

Twice in a 24-hour period. Maybe it's wacky sex season. I dunno. At least Jimmy and Laughing Girl didn't taint any music for me. But next time you stop for a drink in the local drive-thru, beware. If you hear the Latin oompa version of a favorite song drifting through the still night air, run away - do not look - just leave. You'll thank me for it.

Really.

And for those planning a little lovin' in the family hatchback? There's a "Car Kama Sutra" online. Google it. It may save you some embarrassment, pain, and a brake up the butt.

The Mile High Flub

"Would you sleep with Ralph Fiennes?"
"Dunno... 'English Patient' Ralph Fiennes or 'fat Nazi' Ralph Fiennes?"

- Ellen and a friend discuss the actor in question, The Ellen Show
(when Ellen's character was still straight, back in the dark ages)

Sure, I can understand that moment when the heat of passion overtakes you. You lose control. You do things you might not normally do.

Heck, you might do something that causes you to get fired.

A few jobs back, one of my colleagues was found bent over her desk, getting a "special delivery" from the young dude freshly hired for the mail room. At 10 in the morning. She was late for a meeting, the boss stopped by to see if she could join the group in the conference room, and... BAM. She did not get fired, but the new dude from the mail room did. I know that the boss, a very conservative guy, really wanted to can her, but she was disabled, a minority, and a legacy for the organization. Firing her would have been even messier than that mid-morning screw over a paper-littered desk.

But after the episode, she was shunned by management - and most of the staff. Eventually she quit. The office had become a hostile work environment, but, admittedly, that was mostly of her own doing.

According to a 2006 Harris Interactive survey, 16% of U.S. men and 7% of U.S. women reported having sex in the office. Of course, this statistic doesn't say if they were having that sex alone or with a partner. I don't think I want to speculate. I would hope that most of those folks had at least a private office or a conference room to get down and get funky. "Hey, Bob, heh heh... uh... sometimes it's tough to share a cubicle wall, huh? Heh heh... uh... could you turn down your radio? I'm not really into WASH FM... and, uh, while you're at it, heh heh, maybe you could thrust a little less aggressively? You guys keep knocking over my coffee... Maybe stifle Mary's screams, too???"

So, that begs the question: what if you're horny and don't have much private space at work? Say, if you're a flight attendant?

Yeah, yeah, we all know about the mile high club. But, c'mon - how many people actually indulge in the fantasy of sex in mid-air on a commercial jet? A few years back, there was a "mile high" airline called Fly Key West. Their slogan was "We fly at 5,280 feet, give or take six inches." Crass, but funny. For a fee, they would take an amorous couple up in a Piper Cub decked out with a bed in the back, so they could go at it in the very friendly skies. Patrons had the option of having their session filmed, and, if they chose, the video would be made available on the airline's website for paying members to view. They had quite the array of screenshots on their website, trust me. But, just a month before 9/11, Fly Key West had a bizarre tragedy on board one of their planes. A 60-something Cuban couple booked a flight, ostensibly to make whoopie over the lovely waters of the Florida Keys. In fact, they were would-be hijackers, and they wanted that plane to fly to Cuba. In the end, the plane crashed and the couple died, but miraculously, the pilot survived.

But there are other airlines dotting the (artificial) horizon that still serve up hot sex in mid-air, like Mile High Atlanta, where $299 gets you a bottle of champagne, an hour in a Piper Cub, and your souvenir sheets to take home after you've pumped some airborne rump. (Probably because the pilot doesn't want to have to handle your dirty linens after you're done.)

Aero-Tech, Inc. in Lexington, Kentucky offers the same type of service. You'll see the link to the $250 mile high offering on this "scenic flights" page - it's under the Kid's Flight and the Father's Day Flight (both of which may occur after the Mile High Flight.)

I'm sure there's a whole lotta lovin' goin' down on board private jets, too. Lord only knows what happens on John Travolta's Boeing 707. Sorry, that should be "Xenu only knows." My bad.

But what about commercial jets? How many people really go off to an airline lavatory and have sex? First, the couple would have to be small enough to get both parties inside one of those freakishly claustrophobic toilets. Second... well, dear god... most people would have be utterly drunk to do it there. I mean, have you really looked around an airplane toilet after you've been in flight for a short time? YUCK! I bring throw-away toothbrushes when I fly long-haul trips, just so I don't have to re-use one that's been in an airplane lavatory.

Sure, I can think of worse toilets in which to have sex: a row of porta-potties at the Renaissance Faire (or a NASCAR event)... a Central Asian open hole (holy crap, you'd have to have outstanding balance - and no sense of smell)... and, of course, the loo on a Russian train comes to mind. True story: on a business trip to rural Russian back in 1995, I went into a Russian overnight train bathroom and accidentally brushed up against the pee-covered edge of the toilet. The fluid touched my leg and - as god is my witness - it BURNED THROUGH MY TROUSERS. I can only image what kind of terrifying, homemade jet fuel hooch my fellow travelers were drinking through the night to create that level of toxicity.

But still, I cannot imagine what level of passion - or stupidity - would drive anyone to attempt sex in an airplane toilet. The yuckiness. The claustrophobia. The bruising.

Unless, I guess, it's Ralph Fiennes who wants to bang you.

I'm sure you've all heard by now of the former Qantas flight attendant that fell prey to Mr. Fiennes' charm while on board a flight to India recently. At first, the woman, Lisa Robertson, denied the episode despite, apparently, half the plane knowing something was going down inside that ocupado cubicle. Then, suddenly, she sang a different tune (probably when approached by tabloids bearing cash.) Yes, they had sex - unprotected - on board the plane, and then had a day of crazy lovemaking in a Mumbai hotel. Ralph, a UNICEF UK ambassador, was on his way to India on an HIV/AIDS awareness trip. (Nice going with the unprotected sex there, Mr. Ambassador!) Fiennes' publicist now says that Ralphie boy was the victim here, seduced by the feminine wiles of Ms. Robertson. Yeaaaah. Whatever.

Eh, who knows what really goes on behind closed doors when the bolt is pulled tight and the folding door is locked in place? Watch out for that smoke detector, baby, cuz this lavatory is smokin'!

Sure, if you can handle the "yuck factor", the potential injuries, the post-coital walk of shame back to your seat, the disgust and/or envious resentment of your fellow passengers, and the possibility of arrest (or diversion of the plane, if folks get a little overzealous), and you are a "nobody" on the flight, well, hell, I guess you should go for it. Just, when you're done, pleeeeeease wipe everything down for the next customer, okay?

But if you're WORKING the flight, why do it? And if you are a UNICEF ambassador, traveling on an HIV/AIDS project, why engage in unprotected sex with a stranger - one who might make this all public? Is a few minutes of uncomfortable intimacy worth your job and your reputation? I think that's pretty damn stupid.

In truth, Ralph Fiennes will come out of this relatively unscathed. After all, he's doing a film with Colin Farrell right now, so he's probably still looking good in comparison to his coworker! But Lisa Robertson - a former cop, suffering from depression, and struggling financially? She's been fired by Qantas, and any tabloid money she got will quickly run out. Robertson will be left a sad, broke joke, a punchline for a Hollywood actor's next Tonight Show appearance, a la Hugh Grant.

"Jeez, Ralph - what were you thinking?" Har har har har har!

I think it would be classy for Fiennes to announce that he's stepping down from his ambassadorial position. Or, at the very least, for him to say that he clearly has much yet to learn about the spread of HIV/AIDS himself. Then, he could actively participate in some of the seminars that are being offered to folks in rural India who haven't had the advantages and access to sex education that he has.

Not trying to sound high and mighty here. Just thinking that, rather than proclaiming himself to be a victim in this silly sex romp, Fiennes could do something positive and humble.

But I have a strong hunch I'll win Powerball before that happens. Hell, I'll be having sex in an airplane lavatory myself before that happens! (And yes, for the record, that will be never, thank you very much.)

Seriously, somebody, get me some Purell!