This might be a surprise to many of you, but I don’t do well on flights. Overall, I’d say my whole relationship with flying is on the rocks. I’m not afraid of heights, or anything like that. While flying at 30,000 feet in a sealed metal tube might not sound like a picnic, I’m not overly concerned about the heights. The TSA doesn’t bother me very much, either. I’m not a fan of the constant cavity searches, but that’s not where I hide my drugs, so it’s never been a problem. All the stories I hear from my friends are what really turn me off to plane travel.
I’ve done some extensive studies on how to pick up women, and my findings are exactly what you’d expect. If you’re a fighter pilot, test pilot, or stunt pilot, you’re 100 percent more likely to attract women than an accountant. Musicians, Olympic athletes, pirate-ship captains, and underwear models can’t compare to test pilots. The only people who come close are billionaires, but they don’t count. I’d become a pilot, but my ears go pop whenever I walk up the stairs, so that’s out of the question. Luckily, I’m devilishly handsome, which is enough to pick up grounded chicks. I’m not that into flighty girls to begin with, so it’s a win-win situation for me.
Some fools might claim that the best way to pick up women is to talk to them and take an interest in what they have to say, but they’re dead wrong. Women don’t want men with money either. Having money is a definite perk, but it’s not a deciding factor. What women really want are complete psychopaths — who smell good. If you’re a test pilot, or a musician, or an international man of mystery there’s obviously something deeply wrong with you and women are immensely attracted to that. They want to cradle your little psycho head in their arms while you froth at the mouth and shake violently. I don’t know what it is that makes women want men with deep-rooted issues, but it’s given me a steady stream of girlfriends, so I’m happy with the arrangement.
Of course, they all leave as soon as they figure out that I’m just a tremendous arsehole and there’s nothing actually wrong with me.
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The best ideas are the ones that can leave you in a flaming pile of bones and rubble at the bottom of a cliff, but don’t. If a plan can’t go spectacularly wrong, then it really isn’t worth doing. No risk leads to no reward, which leaves you with no fun. Of course, there are some things that I wouldn’t recommend doing. I wouldn’t jump off the Eiffel Tower wearing a home-made parachute, and I wouldn’t eat at Arby’s if you drove up to my house with a dump-truck full of 100-dollar bills. Some things are all risk, no reward, and in the case of Arby’s: prolonged, agonizing death. At least jumping off the Eiffel Tower will put you out of your misery quickly.
Personally, I probably wouldn’t have driven off the side of the mountain with a parachute duct-taped to my snowmobile, but to each their own. It went well, so I can’t judge — and if it didn’t go well I wouldn’t judge anyways, because that was some butt-puckering action. I know that Finland isn’t exactly the happiest place on Earth, but you’d think the Finns would have a greater sense of self-preservation.
I suppose driving a snowmobile off a cliff is a lot more appealing than living in a lot of places in Northern Europe, but surviving a stunt like this must be immensely disappointing because when you land you’re still in Finland.
They’re more like fighter jets than birds. The only difference is I’m a lot less worried about getting pooped on by fighter jets. I might get hit by a couple loose missiles, but at least there won’t be any poop. I’d take instantaneous death over mild discomfort any day. Just imagine the smell of digested bird brains running down your shirt and you’ll be ready to get bombed.