Get Drunk On The Flight Night

Why pay $150 to get drunk from gate-to-gate in the sky?

Why not?

Some dudes make this the goal of stratospheric travel. One nip at a time, all the while trying not to appear overtly intoxicated so that they may have another.

There is no 'bottom shelf' on an airplane. It's either Jack, Glen Livet, or Smirnoff. Peanuts are your drunk food. Who cares if they're saltier than your groin after a rec basketball game? Everything on a plane somehow feels inadequately premium.

Somehow they always seem to have enough ice too. This... along with the achievement of flight... is amazing. Was the ice in the form of one giant block on flights back in the 1950s? Did a blonde-haired bowl-cutted boy named Timothy deliver it to the tarmac for a nickel? I have actually witnessed KFC run out of chicken, but I have never been on a flight where they've run out of ice.

Anyway, back to the booze...

Sometimes they allow you to order two travel-sized bottles at a time. Sometimes, you manage to drink two travel-sized bottles of booze at the same time. When you accomplish this, you can catch the cart on its way back up the aisle and get two more. If you didn't bother getting Mickey D's on the way onto the bird, then you can consider yourself wasted. Four nips within forty minutes of being airborne, and you're in the promised land of avid, but degenerate buzz-chasers. Sky Mall magazine becomes infinitely funnier. You nearly vomit on the product number for doggie stairs.

Even works well with Booze Hounds

It's about 90 minutes in, your BAC is peaking, and the beverage cart is making its second approach. You were a little boisterous, but oddly enough, you are pretty focused for being a drunk bastard. You remember to keep your elbows within the confines of your seat and put a pleasant look on your face for the flight attendant. But not too pleasant. She carefully surveys your posture and mannerisms, fails to notice four empty hotel shampoo bottles of Jack, and loads you up with 2 more for 16 dollars. 6 nips, 48 dollars, and a BAC of 0.19. You are doing something that hasn't been achieved since the prime of Ted Williams. If you keep this pace up, you'll land with triple-crown numbers... or a felony.

You are above cloud nine, both figuratively and literally. You are shit-faced at cruising altitude. You could put up with screaming infants, other drunk passengers, and offensive body odor all equally and combined. You're exuding so much confidence, you feel like you could try out for your country's Olympic team. Maybe not in a rifle sport, but in something pretty challenging. If you can get this happy this high in the air, you probably could accomplish anything. But first, another round. Maybe that Air Marshal over there would like one too.

The inevitable has happened. The flight staff has easily deduced that you are wasted, and they refuse to further facilitate your guzzling of booze. They didn't abet in the first place, but when this news first broke, you acted as if they did. They got you this way, and you paid damn good money for it. And now that Air Marshal is finally paying attention to you. Better do something loud.

These people just don't understand you. It's their problem, not yours. Why can't they just let you have a good time? What the hell is wrong with them? Why won't they lighten up. Completely absurd. Good thing everything is still funny. But it's a little weird that things seem to fade-in and fade-out so transiently.

By now you're thinking that the entire staff understands you're grossly intoxicated. It has to be incredibly apparent on their faces if you can notice this body language after 7 nips of the hard stuff. It's okay though, you'll get it together, you have always had a good tolerance. Many people have actually told you how it's so hard to tell if you're drunk when you're drunk. And this is eligible for bragging rights. Completely pay no mind to the uncomfortable contortions your stomach is going through right now. Okay... it's cool... Let's barf.

You deserve to throw-up if you've been slugging these back

Peanut shrapnel, bile, and Jack Daniels are splattered across your 270 degree vicinity. The cabin reeks. Other people soon begin to vomit on the merit of how disgusting and explosive your spew was. This isn't good. Too late to cover this up, too late to pretend it wasn't you, and too large of a blast radius to clean it up yourself. You've done it now. How could you possibly be any more disgusting?

Time to hit on some chicks.