Текст книги "Napalm and Silly Putty"

Автор книги: Джордж Карлин

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-75” ??WHERE WAS I STANDING LAST TIME WE DID THIS? ?

When Britain returned Hong Kong to China there was a long, formal ceremony. The whole thing looked well-rehearsed, and I wondered how everyone knew exactly where to stand and what to do. After all, the event had never taken place before; how could there be a set of procedures? Do the British have a manual on returning colonies? If so, they won’t be needing it much longer.

I notice the same thing is true when a pope or king dies.

The elaborate funerals involve at least thirty or forty groups of participants, each with different roles and different garb, and each of whom seems to know exactly where to walk, when to stop, and where to stand. And everyone knows all the songs and prayers by heart.

Can someone tell me when these people practice all this pageantry?

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-76” ??LIFE’S LITTLE MOMENTS ?

Do you ever look at your watch and immediately forget the time, so you look again? And still it doesn’t register, so you have to look a third time. And then someone asks you what time it is, and you actually have to look at your watch for the fourth time in three minutes? Don’t you feel stupid?

Do you ever find yourself standing in a room, and you can’t remember why you went in there? And you think to yourself, “Maybe if I go back where I was I’ll see something that reminds me. Or maybe it would be quicker if I just stand here and hope it comes back to me.” Usually as you’re weighing those options, two words float across your mind: “Alzheimer’s disease.”

Do you ever have to sneeze while you’re taking a piss? It’s frightening. Deep down you’re afraid you’ll release all sorts of bodily fluids into your pants. What people don’t realize is that it’s physically impossible to sneeze while pissing; your brain won’t allow it. Because your brain knows you might blow your asshole out. And wind up having to repaint the entire apartment.

Have you ever noticed how sometimes all day Wednesday you keep thinking it’s Thursday? Then the next day when you’re back to normal, you wonder, why don’t you think it’s Friday?

Have you ever been sitting on a railroad train in the station, and another train is parked right next to you? And one of them begins moving, but you can’t tell which one? And then it becomes obvious, and all the magic is gone? Wouldn’t it be nice if we could spend our whole lives not knowing which train was moving? Actually, we do.

Do you ever fall asleep in the late afternoon and wake up after dark, and for a moment you can’t figure out what day it is? You actually find yourself thinking, Could this be yesterday?

Did you ever tell someone they have a little bit of dirt on their face? They never rub the right spot, do they? They always assume the mirror image and rub the wrong side. Don’t you just want to slap the bastard?

Have you noticed that when your head is on the pillow, if you close one eye the pillow is in one position? But when you switch eyes the pillow seems to move? Sometimes I lie awake for hours doing that.

Do you ever reach the top of a staircase and think there’s one more step? So you take one of those big, awkward steps that doesn’t accomplish anything? And then you have to do it a few more times, so people will think it’s something you do all the time. “I do this all the time, folks. It’s the third stage of syphilis.”

The 10 Most Embarrassing Songs of All Time

1. I Gotta Be Me

2. My Way

3. I Write the Songs

4. That’s Life

5. Let Me Entertain You

6. Hey, Look Me Over

7. You’re Gonna Hear From Me

8. Impossible Dream

9. I Will Survive

10. If They Could See Me Now

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-77” ??SHORT TAKES ?

People often say, “That’s a fine how-do-you-do,” when deep in their hearts they know it’s really only a fairly good how-do-you-do.

I’ve noticed there’s such a thing as disposable douche. And I wonder Why would someone want to keep that stuff in the first place?

When I was young I used to read about the decline of Western civilization, and I decided it was something I would like to make a contribution to.

Have you noticed when you look in the top drawer of someone’s desk there are always a few pennies in the pencil tray? I take them.

In a package of bacon, underneath all the neat horizontal strips there’s always one oddly-folded piece that seems to have been thrown in at the last moment.

You rarely see one oat all by itself.

The best thing about living at the seashore is that you only have assholes on three sides of you. And if they come at you from the water, you can usually hear them splash.

Although it’s untrue that rubbing a toad causes warts, it does give the toad a hard-on.

We will never be an advanced civilization as long as rain showers can delay the launching of a space rocket.

THE POPE WEARS LOAFERS

I never worry that all hell will break loose. My concern is that only part of hell will break loose and be much harder to detect.

What is all this dinner-and-a-movie shit? Why can’t people just go somewhere and fuck for three or four hours?

In restaurants where they serve frog’s legs, what do they do with the rest of the frog? Do they just throw it away? You never see “frog torsos” on the menu. Is there actually a garbage can full of frog bodies in the alley? I wouldn’t want to be a homeless guy looking for an unfinished cheeseburger and open the lid on that.

I hope no one asks me to show them the ropes; I have no idea where they are. Maybe I could pull some strings and find out.

If you practice throwing the discus alone, you have to go get it yourself.

It’s fun to go into the hospital room of a terminal patient and whisper to him, “Hang on. We’re working on a miracle drug. It’ll be ready in about five years.”

I really don’t care if we have a nuclear war as long as I can get some French fries.

I’m one of those people who hope Elvis Presley is really dead. Buddy Holly too. “The day the music died,” shit. As far as I’m concerned, it was the day the music got better. All those guys did was steal and water down black music to make it safe and easy to digest for fearful white kids. Here’s a toast to all the great black artists who got ripped off by no-talent white thieves.

One thing nice about being dead is that you immediately become eligible to appear on stamps and money.

Cat’s thought: “I sure could do with a nice rat.”

Oxen can be trained to genuflect and whistle softly in the moonlight.

Have you ever noticed the escalator handrail and the thing you’re standing on don’t move at the same speed?

You know what you rarely see? A ninety-three-year-old guy workin’ on his résumé.

I don’t mind government regulation, but requiring people to wear helmets during intercourse is a bit much.

Whom does a male ladybug dance with?

Did you ever notice that apparently the Lone Ranger and Tonto never got their laundry done?

I pray each night that someday on a single afternoon, several major news stories will break within a few hours of each other. I would love to see two 747s colliding above Times Square, the president and vice president getting assassinated, Iran and Israel having a nuclear exchange, the Dow Jones dropping 8,500 points, and California having an earthquake measuring 13.7. It would be fun watching the news channels try to cope with it all. And you know what would really be fun? Reading the newspapers for the following few weeks.

I know a transsexual guy whose only ambition is to eat, drink, and be Mary.

Not Much to Do Dept.: Someone has actually gone to the trouble of determining that Columbus, Ohio, has the best-dressed police force.

Here’s how you get rid of counterfeit money: Put it in the collection plate at church.

I don’t understand the problem some people have with paroling Charles Manson. I say set him free and let him get on with his work. I have a long list of celebrities I’d be glad to share with him.

When people say “clean as a whistle,” they forget that a whistle is full of spit.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-78” ??ORGAN DONOR PROGRAMS ?

I’m not too enthusiastic about this organ donor idea. What bothers me most is that it’s run by the Motor Vehicles Bureau. I figure if I have to wait in line that long for a kidney, fuck it. I’ll do without.

They send you a little card you’re supposed to carry in your wallet next to your driver’s license. You’re supposed to list the organs you’re willing to donate in case you die. Are these people crazy? Do you honestly believe that if a paramedic finds that card on you after an accident he’s gonna be trying to save your life? No way! He’s lookin’ for parts.

“Look, Sid! Here’s that lower intestine we’ve been hoping for. Never mind the CPR, this man’s a donor!”

Fuck that. If these people want something of mine, they can have my appendix. That’s it. That’s all I’m giving. Put it in the cooler and get the fuck outta here.

Plugging Along

And don’t go pulling any plugs on me, either. That’s another bunch of macho bullshit floating around. People talkin’ about, “Aw, just pull the plug on me. If I’m comatose? Lyin’ there like a vegetable? Just go ahead and pull the plug.”

And I say, FUCK YOU! LEAVE MY PLUG ALONE!! Get an extension cord for my plug! I want everything you got: tubes, cords, plugs, probes, electrodes, IVs. You find I got an orifice that’s not bein’ used, stick a fuckin’ tube in it. Vegetable, shit! I don’t care if I look like an artichoke. Save my ass!

If you ever find out I’m comatose just remember there are three things I gotta have: ice cream, morphine, and TV. Give me that ice cream about every two hours; give me that morphine about, oh, every ten minutes; and turn on the fuckin’ TV!! I wanna watch Survivor!

And don’t be comin’ to visit me, either. I got no time for live people. I’m brain-dead, here. Ain’t you people got no respect for the brain-dead? Hey, you gotta be brain-dead to watch Survivor! in the first place; you might as well watch it when you’re clinically brain-dead.

Now, one more thought concerning this comatose stuff. This might come in handy someday. If you know a homosexual who is comatose, remember, you can always comfort his family by saying, “Look at it this way, folks. He was a fruit, now he’s a vegetable. At least he’s still in the produce section.”

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-79” ??ON THE BEACH: THE MOVIE ?

It is said that just before you die your life flashes before your eyes; especially if it’s a sudden death. It’s like a little personal movie of your own. But it doesn’t make sense to me. Mathematically, how would it work?

Let’s say you’re swimming at the beach, you get caught in a riptide, and it pulls you out to sea. You panic and begin swallowing water. Since you’re about to die, the flashback movie begins to roll.

It seems to me that if it’s really a flashback of your entire life, you’d have to watch the whole thing, and that would include the ending. Which means seeing yourself arrive at the beach, walk into the surf, start to drown, and have the movie start all over again. Therefore you’d have to watch it a second time, which would include arriving at the beach, walking into the surf, and . . . you get what I mean? Thanks to the flashback, you can never die. The movie runs forever.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-80” ??“I COULDN’T COMMIT SUICIDE IF MY LIFE DEPENDED ON IT” ?

So Little Time

Whenever I hear that someone has committed suicide I wonder one thing. Not Why did he do it? or What was he thinking? I wonder, How did he find the time? Who has time to be running around committing suicide these days? Aren’t you busy? Don’t you have things to do? I do. Suicide would be way down on my list. It would come much later, for example, than setting my neighbor’s house on fire. Believe me, I would have to work suicide into an already very crowded schedule. I’d probably try a little self-mutilation at first, just to get started. See if I like the general concept.

When you think about it, the planning alone would create all sorts of tasks. First, you’d have to choose a method. That’s big. And that might take a while; there are so many good ways to go.

“Let’s see. How about firing a gun in my mouth? Naaah! Jesus, that would hurt. And suppose I lived? My head would have a big hole in the top. Fuck that. Maybe I should just hang myself. No, too weird. I don’t want people to think I’m weird. Just sad. Really, really sad. I guess I could put my head in the oven and turn on the gas. Shit, it’s an electric oven. What am I gonna do? I’m afraid of heights, I have trouble swallowing pills, and I can’t stand the sight of blood. God, this is depressing. I know! I’ll throw myself in front of a subway train. No, I live in Cheyenne. Damn! Maybe I’ll just eat some infected dog shit.”

Dear Survivor

You also have to decide whether or not to leave a note. You might just think, Fuck ’em. Let ’em figure it out for themselves. And I really think not leaving a note is a nice touch, especially if you’re a perky, optimistic, happily married person and recently got a big promotion. Let ’em figure it out for themselves.

But, remember, if you do leave a note you’ll have to come up with a version you’re satisfied with. You have to get it right.

“Let’s see, ‘To whom it may concern.’ No, too impersonal. ‘Dear Myra.’ No, that leaves out the kids. I’ve got it! ‘Hi, everybody. Guess what?’ ”

Or you may want to go for maximum survivor-guilt: “To all of you who drove me to this, you know who you are. I hope you’re satisfied, now that I’ve destroyed myself.”

How about simply saying, “Hi. Hope this note finds you healthy and happy. Not me. Healthy, not happy. In fact, wait’ll you read the rest of this note.”

Suppose you’re a writer? Seems to me, a writer would get so involved revising and polishing the note that he’d never get around to the suicide. He would cheer up just by writing a really good note. Then he’d turn it into a book proposal.

Another problem for suicide people is the timing. “Okay, Tuesday’s out, gotta take Timmie to the circus; Wednesday’s my colon cleansing; the play-offs start on Friday; my folks’ll be here for the weekend. Hmmm! The weekend . . .”

I feel sorry for these suicide people. There are so many things to think about. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still glad they do it; I find it highly entertaining. It certainly qualifies as drama: an irreversible act that puts a permanent end to your consciousness. Talk about a big decision; you’d better be thinking clearly. You gotta be at your best for suicide.

Must-Die TV

I just love the whole idea. I could really appreciate an all-suicide channel. Boy, you talk about reality programming: One person after another, destroying themselves permanently in front of the entire nation. And never mind that V-chip shit, let the kids watch. Teach ’em they have options in life. I would show every method imaginable. And when there’s a lull in the action, I’d run films of World War II kamikaze raids and Arab suicide bombers.

I think you could get big ratings with suicide. Especially if you had unusual methods. I’ll bet anything you could get 200 people in this country to hold hands and jump into the Grand Canyon. Sick people, old people, the chronically depressed. And to get young folks involved, instead of calling it suicide, you bill it as “extreme living.” Put it on TV and give some of the profits to the surviving relatives.

CEO Is D.O.A.

But I digress. You know what I really like about suicide? The reasons some people give. Like those Japanese businessmen who bankrupt their companies through bad management and decide to end it all. Imagine a guy in a three-piece gray suit and red tie, opening his briefcase, taking out a fourteen-inch fish knife, and slashing his stomach open eighteen inches from side to side. Wow! If that tie wasn’t red before it sure is now. By the way, this would be a really good idea for those Firestone and Ford executives.

No Coin Return

I love suicide. You know what they ought to have in amusement arcades? Coin-operated suicide machines. Simple idea. You sit down at a steel table and deposit 50 cents. There’s a thirty-second delay as you lean forward, place your head on the table, and put your arms behind your back. Before long, you hear, “Five, four, three, two, one.” Then a large cast-iron hammer comes slamming down with 2,000 pounds of force and smashes your head to bits. And it keeps on smashing for about twenty minutes, to give you your money’s worth. Lets you rest in pieces.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-81” ??EUPHEMISTIC BULLSHIT ?

I don’t like euphemistic language, words that shade the truth. American English is packed with euphemism, because Americans have trouble dealing with reality, and in order to shield themselves from it they use soft language. And somehow it gets worse with every generation.

Here’s an example. There’s a condition in combat that occurs when a soldier is completely stressed out and is on the verge of nervous collapse. In World War I it was called “shell shock.” Simple, honest, direct language. Two syllables. Shell shock. It almost sounds like the guns themselves. That was more than eighty years ago.

Then a generation passed, and in World War II the same combat condition was called “battle fatigue.” Four syllables now; takes a little longer to say. Doesn’t seem to hurt as much. “Fatigue” is a nicer word than “shock.” Shell shock! Battle fatigue.

By the early 1950s, the Korean War had come along, and the very same condition was being called “operational exhaustion.” The phrase was up to eight syllables now, and any last traces of humanity had been completely squeezed out of it. It was absolutely sterile: operational exhaustion. Like something that might happen to your car.

Then, barely fifteen years later, we got into Vietnam, and, thanks to the deceptions surrounding that war, it’s no surprise that the very same condition was referred to as “post-traumatic stress disorder.” Still eight syllables, but we’ve added a hyphen, and the pain is completely buried under jargon: post-traumatic stress disorder. I’ll bet if they had still been calling it “shell shock,” some of those Vietnam veterans might have received the attention they needed.

But it didn’t happen, and one of the reasons is that soft language; the language that takes the life out of life. And somehow it keeps getting worse.

Here are some more examples. At some point in my life, the following changes occurred:

toilet paper = bathroom tissue

sneakers = running shoes

false teeth = dental appliances

medicine = medication

information = directory assistance

the dump = the landfill

motels = motor lodges

house trailers = mobile homes

used cars = previously owned vehicles

room service = guest room dining

riot = civil disorder

strike = job action

zoo = wildlife park

jungle = rain forest

swamp = wetlands

glasses = presciption eyewear

garage = parking structure

drug addiction = substance abuse

soap opera = daytime drama

gambling joint = gaming resort

prostitute = sex worker

theater = performing arts center

wife beating = domestic violence

constipation = occasional irregularity

Health

When I was a little boy, if I got sick I went to a doctor, who sent me to a hospital to be treated by other doctors. Now I go to a “family practitioner,” who belongs to a “health maintenance organization,” which sends me to a “wellness center” to be treated by “health-care delivery professionals.”

Poverty

Poor people used to live in slums. Now “the economically disadvantaged” occupy “substandard housing” in the “inner cities.” And a lot of them are broke. They don’t have “negative cash flow.” They’re broke! Because many of them were fired. In other words, management wanted to “curtail redundancies in the human resources area,” and so, many workers are no longer “viable members of the workforce.” Smug, greedy, well-fed white people have invented a language to conceal their sins. It’s as simple as that.

Government

The CIA doesn’t kill anybody, they “neutralize” people. Or they “depopulate” an area. The government doesn’t lie, it engages in “disinformation.” The Pentagon actually measures nuclear radiation in something called “sunshine units.” Israeli murderers are called “commandos,” Arab commandos are called “terrorists.” The contra killers were known as “freedom fighters.” Well, if crime fighters fight crime and firefighters fight fire, what do freedom fighters fight?

Physical Disorders

And some of this softened language is just silly and embarrassing. On the airlines they say they’re going to preboard “passengers in need of special assistance.” Cripples. Simple, honest, direct language. There’s no shame attached to the word “cripple.” No shame. It’s a word used in Bible translations: “Jesus healed the cripples.” It doesn’t take six words to describe that condition.

But we don’t have cripples anymore; instead we have the “physically challenged.” Is that a grotesque enough evasion for you? How about “differently abled?” I’ve actually heard cripples referred to as differently abled. You can’t even call them handicapped anymore. They say, “We’re not handicapped, we’re handi-capable.” These poor suckers have been bullshitted by the system into believing that if you change the name of the condition, somehow you’ll change the condition. Well, it doesn’t happen that way.

I’m sure you’ve noticed we have no deaf people in this country. “Hearing impaired.” And no one’s blind. “Partially sighted” or “visually impaired.” And thank God we no longer have stupid children. Today’s kids all have “learning disabilities.” Or they’re “minimally exceptional.” How would you like to be told that about your child? Actually, it sounds faintly positive.

“He’s minimally exceptional.”

“Oh, thank God for that, I guess.”

Best of all, psychologists now call ugly people “those with severe appearance deficits.” Things are so bad that any day I expect to hear a rape victim referred to as an unwilling sperm recipient.

Gettin’ Old

Of course, it’s been obvious for some time that there are no old people in this country. They all died, and what we have are “senior citizens.” How’s that for a lifeless, typically American, twentieth-century phrase? There’s no pulse in a “senior citizen.”

But that’s a term I’ve come to accept. That’s what old people are going be called. But the phrase I will continue to resist is when they describe an old person as being “ninety years young.” Imagine how sad the fear of aging that is revealed in that phrase. To be unable even to use the word “old”; to have to use its antonym.

And I understand the fear of aging is natural; it’s universal, isn’t it? No one wants to get old, no one wants to die. But we do. We die. And we don’t like that, so we bullshit ourselves.

I started bullshitting myself when I reached my forties. I’d look in the mirror, and say, “Well, I guess I’m getting . . . ‘older!’” Older sounds better than old, doesn’t it? Sounds like it might even last a little longer. Bullshit. I’m getting old. And it’s okay. But the Baby Boomers can’t handle that, and remember, the boomers invented most of this soft language. So now they’ve come up with a new life phase: “pre-elderly.” How sad. How relentlessly sad.

Gettin’ Dead

But it’s all right, folks, because thanks to our fear of death, no one has to die; they can all just pass away. Or expire, like a magazine subscription. If it happens in the hospital, it will be called a terminal episode. The insurance company will refer to it as negative patient-care outcome. And if it’s the result of malpractice, they’ll say it was a therapeutic misadventure.

To be honest, some of this language makes me want to vomit. Well, perhaps “vomit” is too strong a word. It makes me want to engage in an involuntary, personal protein spill.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-82” ??BEER AND POT ?

When I was young, most kids in my neighborhood drank beer before they discovered pot. Everybody drank first. Saturday night we drank beer and puked on our shoes. It was an Irish neighborhood. Drink and puke, that was it. A great American tradition. It still goes on today.

Then in 1950, when I was thirteen, we heard about pot. We discovered that on pot you didn’t stagger, you didn’t puke on your shoes, and your breath didn’t smell. Which was important. Because, as a kid, when you came home from drinking there were two breath smells that could give you away: alcohol and puke.

So, we found that when you smoked pot, you could withstand your mother’s closest scrutiny. Because, let’s face it, you had come home drunk so often wearing someone else’s clothing that your mother was now openly asking to smell your breath.

“Come here, mister! Let me smell the breath. Ahhh! No booze or puke. That’s a good boy. What’s that under your arm?”

“Two boxes of Oreos.”

“That’s a good boy.”

“Good night, Ma.”

Cool.

? HYPERLINK “file:///E:\Documents%20and%20Settings\Dom\Desktop\1791_NapalmSillyPutty%5B1%5D\Napalm_body-contents.html” l “TOC-83” ??HIGH ON THE PLANE ?

Airlines disappoint me. Why don’t they have a flight attendant whose job it is to hand out drugs? They’re certainly aggressive enough when it comes to alcohol. Even before the meal begins they’re in the aisles: “Champagne, red wine, white wine?” Can’t they spare one person to wander around muttering, “Coke? Smoke? Chance to get high. Crank? Acid? Smack? You’re high in the plane, now get high on the plane!”

For me, on a long flight it used to be that gettin’ high was half the fun. Hell, even a short flight. Lockin’ myself in the bathroom, firin’ up a joint. That’s what flyin’ was all about. Now you can’t smoke anything at all, not even a good old-fashioned ready-roll. They have smoke detectors. Jesus! The people in this country have really become a pack of fearful, ignorant sheep. Everybody’s a God-fearing, law-abiding asshole now. Fair warning, my friend: if you’re gonna smoke a joint on the airplane these days, you better be an old pro.

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.