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My Flight To Las Vegas With Mad Max And His Travel Bag Of Drugs

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We’re actually past our scheduled takeoff time, resigned to the idea that the TSA would never allow Max and the traveling pharmacy he called a “carry on” onto this 747, when finally he appears.

His appearance immediately alerting anyone in the vicinity of his horribly long night and early morning, Max settles in, promptly pressing the stewardess alert button and regaling us with tales of his nightmarish morning.

“So I’m waking up to some of the worst fucking head ever, and I’m like “Jesus, Sarah. This is totally half-assed. I’d rather jerk it at this point, honestly.”

“You’re angry you’re getting morning head?” I asked.

“Shut the fuck up and let me finish. So I realize me enduring this teeth grating of my cock is more of a “job” for me than her, so I enter the spank bank and pull up a fond memory of sexual fulfillment pre-Sarah era misery.”

“I think I can see where this is going,” Will chimes in.

“I’m deeper in fantasy than I am her throat when I’m about to Old Faithful explode, and I let out a “I fuckin’ love you Cara I’m about to go!””

“Oh my God,” I said. I knew Max was a savage, but this takes the cake.

“So then I’m just sitting there while she deals with that mess, thinking “hmmm… Did I actually just say that out loud or was that just part of the whole fantasy deal?”


He pulls out his phone showing 31 missed calls.

“Very much out loud.”

The stewardess arrives and Will orders his patented drink, a double screwdriver hold the orange juice. The woman is perplexed until we explain his desired glass of straight Absolut.

“Ah, okay then. what about for you two? May I suggest an Irish Coffee hold the coffee?”

While we should be angry with this retort, we accept Will’s “guys, its 3:44 a.m. in Vegas, and clubs are open ’til 4 with casinos 24 hours” manifesto, and begin “training” ourselves for the weekend to come.

Before we’ve even left the Northeast, we’re “smash a beer on your forehead”-level hammered, and those gainfully employed by American Airlines are trying to hide all record of our existence.

Max, being the imagined cocksman he claims himself to be, points out a supposed MILF in 13A he claims has been “eyefucking the shit out of him” in between her sips of coffee. I’m skeptical.

“Max, she can’t even fucking see you.”

“Oh, she sees me, and she sees these balls smacking against her ass like a fucking snare drum. I’m making a move.”

Max stands and leaves us, so the rest of this recount of our fateful misadventure comes from the mouth of Max himself, with a sprinkling of my own creative liberties.

Will and I can be found safely in our row, continuing our parade of strangely crafted “screwdrivers” much akin to our sorority counterparts “brunching” with bottomless mimosas.

Max approaches the slightly plump semi-MILF (though, like a children’s water slide, my weight restriction is 100 pounds, so perhaps I’m biased).

“How’d you get so lucky having your own row?” He abruptly sits down.

“Nice to meet you too, I guess,” she says. Max is noticeably intoxicated, 13A stone cold sober. Perfect conditions for pending disaster.

“Hi, I’m Max. I noticed you eying me a bit and thought I’d stop by and say hello.”

“Is that right?”

“I have a keen sense of awareness. My Madden rating would be like 97, maybe 98.”

“Your what?” the MILF says, dating herself.

“So what’s up? Why are you headed to the land of sin, bad breakup?”

“That’s an extremely personal question. Now, since you and your friends thought harassing the stewardess for alcohol before sunrise was necessary, why don’t you tell me your problem?”

“Me? Problem? No way. Just trying to unwind, have a good fucking time. I have an extremely high-stress lifestyle; I’m a pretty powerful person. I don’t know, I hate bragging. Tell me about you.”

“I’m just here on business. Nothing special.”

“Business in Vegas? What are you, a hooker?” Smooth, Max. Real smooth.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry, that came out wrong. But if you are, I mean…”

“If I’m what…?”

“I’m a VP at Chase, I’ll pay whatever. It’s cool. Barely 25 and well on my way, ya know… How many boats can you water ski behind? Let’s find out, right?” So much for “hating bragging.”

“Please go back to your seat,” the MILF says.

“Hey now; I’ve got party favors, too. Let’s take a step back here and relax.”

“Oh yeah? What kind of party favors do you mean?”

“Whatever you want, baby, I can make this business trip a whole lot more pleasure — in more ways than one.” A remarkably well-delivered line from Max, who normally is as smooth as sandpaper.

He sticks his tongue out to accompany the line and starts air licking, however, and she is revolted.

“No? That’s cool, no worries,” Max says.

Mercifully he stands to leave, but she, for reasons unknown, stops him, prompting a blatantly obvious thumbs up to Will and me.

“Second thoughts? I’m like wine, honey, it takes a little time to really appreciate me.” Max really needs to cut it out with these shit lines, Jesus.

“What did you mean by party favors, like drugs?”

“I see us connecting on a deeper level. I like you. We’re kindred spirits.”

“Right, yeah, me too. So what do you have?”

“I’m like a pharmacy baby, you tell me. Ever 69’d on x? You’d wish you were part of the human centipede.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Doorman at my building. Huge Mexican dude. Rico, I think. Or maybe he’s Puerto Rican; that makes more sense. He’s got it all. So?”

“Show me.”

“It’s in my bag, let me grab it.”

“Good, come back.” The MILF is all-in.

Max stands and staggers back to our aisle, interrupting a conversation of imperative importance:

“I understand your point, I really do, but I would just rather leave Bruce Jenner’s genitalia completely out of the purview of conservation, even general thought,” I said.

“Tucked and sliced man, tucked and sliced. Like a split hotdog,” Will responded.

Max stumbles in and falls over the back of the seat like a freshman sorority girl after her first formal.

“Will, hand me my duffel.”

“What the fuck is going on? You look like you have pink eye,” I pointed out.

“Have you been eating ass again?” Will sincerely asks.

“What? No. Well, yeah, but this isn’t pink eye. I’m fucking hammered and about to slam this slut in 13. Give me the bag.”

“Need a rubber?”

“Ew, no.” TFM. “Just give me the fucking bag.”

We hand him his bag and he’s off again.

“Don’t mind me, I’ll just be mile high in more ways than one.”

He sprints his way back to 13A, fashioning himself Lance Armstrong at 30,000 feet, but with two balls.

“You have it?” 13A asks.

“All of it,” Max responds.

“Any coke?”

“The forecast calls for a high chance of snow.”


“Like it’s fucking Coachella.”

“All in that bag?”

“My traveling pharmacy.”

“Wow. How the fuck did you get that on the plane? That’s amazing.”



“My toiletry kit is all fake, hollowed out but under 3 ounces. Honey, I’m on some James Bond shit.”

“That’s amazing, what a coincidence!”

“How so?”

“Well, you could sort of say I am too?”

“Oh okay, drug mule then? How many balloons up your ass? Can you fit something else?”

“Not quite.”


She reaches into her pocket.

“I’m a United States Air Marshal.”

Image via Youtube

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Siblings of Mark Wahlberg

Sorry Mom & Dad. Follow me to prevent my suicide: @SiblingsOfTFM

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