The Smokies: Pray for the Hapless Fighter Pilots Edition
September 12, 2011 in The Smokie Awards
I feel bad for fighter pilots and I want you to join me. I mean, I don’t feel bad for them the same way that I do for homeless people or people who just got fired from their jobs, but their star certainly has dimmed in the quarter of a century since Top Gun aired in theaters. That was the hay-day. They never even had to kill anything with their missiles; they just flew around and reaped the benefits of popular actor Tom Cruise’s stellar performance. Then there was an outbreak of peace with Ivan, and the fighter pilots just didn’t seem all that important anymore. To make matters worse, the SEAL teams started killing our new enemies—pirates, bin Laden, Qaddafi, et cetera—and they started grabbing the glory. I hadn’t realized how bad things had gotten for the poor fighter aces until I saw this headline:
“Fighter Jets Escort Flight to JFK After Passengers Refuse to Leave Bathroom”
Fighter pilots have gone from protecting the Free World during the Cold War to essentially breaking up frat parties (which is a lot more like my job). If you’re a woman (or guy) in a bar, face it, you’re not sleeping with the guy who escorted a plane full of drunken bathroom stuffers to the ground. Imagine how tha conversation would go:
Attractive Woman (or guy): “So, you’re a fighter pilot?”
Fighter Pilot: “That’s right. Zing.” (Makes a gesture with his hand that’s supposed to approximate a plane flying.)
Attractive Woman (or guy): “Ever shoot anything down?”
Fighter Pilot: “Not yet.”
Attractive Woman (or guy): “Oh. Umm, do you ever work out with SEAL Team—”
Fighter Pilot: “Me and a couples of my buddies escorted a plane last week. Seems like some drunk kids stuffed a bathroom on a—”
Attractive Woman (or guy): “Because those guys seem like they’re in terrific shape.”
Fighter Pilot: “Well, we do pilates.”
Until this country goes back to aerially harassing other superpowers or attacking enemies with real air forces, the formerly vast sex appeal of fighter pilots is diminished indefinitely.
Here’s a bunch of awards:
While I don’t know what a Daft Bint is, I nevertheless agree wholeheartedly with Virus: We would all be better off if Sara Sidner were located someplace closer to where I could maybe buy her a drink and then ask her if she was a tomboy when she was younger.
(It’s a sweet sentiment, Ska, but you can’t keep up with a rough and tumble war correspondent like Sara Sidner. She takes shell casings that you and I would run from and makes attractive jewelry out of them.)
Coffee, so much coffee, just blew out of my nose. And chunks of lemon loaf.
(Which was far more dangerous than the shell casings that struck Sara Sidner.)
MilitantRubberDucky/War Criminal’s Book Coming Soon
I can not WAIT to read his chapter on shooting people in the face.
(You make it sound like that’s the most malignant thing Cheney has ever done.)
Only in East Yorkshire. Am I right, people? Don’t even get me started!
(He was of course referring to the East Yorkshire Anus Air-Blasting Incident of 2011.)
LipstickLibrarian/Sort of Live From Zone A
“WHERE ARE THE CHILDREN?” moved me to log in and comment.
(Moved me to post this as a Smokie. People, if you don’t log in and comment, you cant win.)
NinaHagen/Sort of Live From Zone A
It’s horrible – the Daily News truck was parked in a bike lane. Total anarchy.
(Cue up Life During Wartime.)
When my grandmother met my wife and found out she was in college, she told me, “Now if you are going to make her work outside the home she won’t have enough time to clean the house and you’ll live like slobs.”
(Don’t you just love how every grandmother you’ve ever met is always hard at work trying to undermine women’s rights? I think it’s some sort of bizarre generational envy.)
From the picture I deduce it involves lesbians, threesomes and the cost of Fusion replacement blades.
(Smokies Judge’s Discretionary Rule: the mention of at least three things that touch upon a judge’s passions.)
Maybe the person who took the cooler marked “police training materials” thought it was filled with beer and doughnuts.
(I was going to take offense, but then I searched deep inside my own inner cooler.)
I just blush so violently that anything I would say is immediately drowned out by the audible roar of blood rushing to my face.
(I find that this makes maintaining an erection damned near impossible. Because an erection is just a penis that’s engorged with blood. Right?)
Ah, now there’s a naughty bit o’ crumpet!
(It’s British sounding, so it’s classy.)
I like your mules.
(I have to be honest: I have no idea what this means, but it’s really been working for me. A lot!)
DieterTheMasseur/Mound of Love
This is SO unrealistic. What, have the monkeys just magically decided to leave the submarine and go somewhere else that night?
(It’s a rather large submarine. Besides, monkeys can have shore leave, I think.)
Skahammer and DieterTheMasseur/Breaking News: Gay Is Everywhere
Ska: Don’t be fooled, fellow Americans — this is just another race to the bottom.
DTM: If I know Teh Geighs — and I think I do (biblically) — it’s usually more of a race for the top. Any top, really.
(Pokie nominated by Mademoiselle Ducky.)
“I bet her vulva tastes like raspberries.”
(I couldn’t come up with a better response to this than the one that was posted by LipstickLibrarian: “The operative word in this post is ineffectual. Nice try.”)
LipstickLibrarian/Mound of Love
About twenty years ago, a boy I met at Knott’s Berry Farm told me he wanted to “stick his tongue in my quivering mound of love pudding.”
(Is there anyone out there who can honestly say that he or she didn’t get turned on when LL repeated this clod’s words?)
When it comes to visual fair, it would be hard to compete with the panoramic disaster bouillabaisse that this piece wound up being:
NinaHagen/Sort of Live From Zone A
(Miss Hagen’s office has informed me that all of the proceeds from this Mechanical Larynx will go to disaster victims from the wind torn Zone A.)
It’s not easy making a comeback. When this author’s original piece debuted on January 14th of this year, it was narrowly edged out for the Iron Lung by BJonston’s Acid Brain. Undeterred, she’s come back with a followup piece and has won Iron Lung gold.
She won’t actually say anything like this, she will just look at said things with that look. With that look she will control my every move, every impulse, every thought as if I were possessed and I will walk around taking telepathic orders like a good robot. I will find myself cleaning things for no reason until someone speaks to me, waking me from my trancelike stupor, puzzled, dirty rag in hand. Come to think of it, she may even say it too, because she can. She’s my mother. She can say and do whatever she wants because she gave me her blood and carried me around for nine months so that gives her every right—and don’t you forget it.
(Perseverance is ungiveupable, Rosie. Congrats.)