Cockpit Confessions of an Airline Pilot

was an unwitting patsy.”

“Oh shit,”… Father Larry’s had enough. Gruffly bidding the room goodnight, he storms from this sacrilege towards his room.

Sheamus continues his argument, “Jesus’ parents were con-artists, con-men…”

“No, they were con-menschen,” (I can’t let the opportunity pass).

Unfazed, Sheamus continues, …“Do you think that because this all happened 2000 years ago, there were no con-artists? Human Nature’s never changed, for a full 3600 years before there ever was a Jesus, Jews were crawling out of tents every couple hundred years or so, claiming to be the Jewish Messiah.”

We were all beaming now, not knowing exactly where Sheamus is heading, but sure it’ll be a bruising, brilliant and fun ride.

“Mary and Joseph were a couple of Jewish kids who got pregnant on a road trip, so to speak. The carpentry business was slow at the time, so they came up with the virgin birth routine. All that attention, man it was great in the beginning, meeting Kings and wise men. Free meals, housing, and the limelight, man, the limelight… fame is a powerful drug… they rode that scam for all it was worth.”

Sheamus pauses to sip from his Swann’s fake beer. A pink mole of a tongue burrows out of his lips to tidy up his mustache, then retreats.

“Their only problem was that Jesus bought into the story, hook, line and Torah!” He smirks, leaning forward, knowingly, “One night in bed, Mary whispers in Joseph’s ear that she’s troubled, she’s worried about Jesus …. ‘He’s starting to believe that he really is the Messiah, and Joe, our baby’s going to get into trouble.’ Joseph tells her not to worry, ‘when the kid’s a little older, when they think he can handle it, they’ll tell him the truth.—

“They just waited too long,” Sheamus explains, “Yeah, poor, dumb kid, he got hoist on their wooden petard, permanently!”

“You are saying that our Lord Jesus Christ was not the son of God? Is that what you’re saying?” Father Larry demands, having returned (smelling sweetly of Sediki) to bravely defend the faith.

Al-Waleed answers for Sheamus, “Jesus was a pain-in-the-ass Jew Rabbi. He had this holier than thou attitude!”

“Look Larry,” Sheamus says, trying to calm him, “Don’t get into a snit. If Jesus was the son of God, He was into getting himself crucified. If he wasn’t, he’s just some delusional kid that came along, like they did every couple a hundred years or so for those first 3700 years, His crucifixion

just cleaned up the gene pool a bit. The poor dumb kid was on a trip started by his parents, and their scam overtook them. After all, it was only the most gullible Jews who took up the “Christianity thing,” strengthening the pure Jew-gene pool, by removing a considerable contingent of fools.”

Father Larry groans, gut-shot, stalking once again towards his room.

“Hey Sheamus,” I ask, “is this the philosophy that led to your t-shirt and bumper sticker business… Body piercing — Jesus loved it! ….And by the way, how’re sales?”

“Rabbi, you’re gonna’ roast in hell” Sheamus winks.

As I head for my room later that day, Father Larry intercepts me in the deserted hallway.

“Steve, Steve, com’ere.”

“What’s up, Larry?”

“Really, I know you were kidding earlier, right? You really believe in Jesus.”

“Larry, I think I’m actually an atheist. I don’t actually believe in a God.”

“Not even in a Jewish God?”

“No Larry, not Jesus, not Jehovah, not Buddha, not no one. I’m okay with it.”

Larry gets feisty now, his face reddening. “You are a character, and… and you have NO character,” he spits at me.

“Look Larry,” trying to calm him some, “character and integrity, that’s really about what you do when nobody’s looking.”

“I agree, that’s good. I agree.”

“Okay, Larry, so now we agree on something. But, I contend that the only true person of character and integrity is the atheist.”

“What…. where you comin’ up with that shit from?”

“Simple. If one of your believers does the right thing when nobody is looking, it could be because you think that God is always watching, keeping a secret tally of your sins. See, you always feel you’re being watched. Your doing the right thing, but you feel you’re under God’s constant scrutiny, like you can’t cheat.

“When an atheist like me does the right thing when no one’s watching, and there is no God watching, then that atheist is a true person of integrity and character.”

Father Larry seems stunned. “Devil’s spawn,” he declares, marching away from me, up the hall.

The Zam-Zam Scam

I’m on lobby duty with P-Brain and Herr-Lippi in attendance. Its early evening and our guys in Jeddah take over the couches in the lobby of the hotel, to schmooze and gripe for hours.

Lynn Barkley and Jerry Lovell come down the stairs, excitedly carrying their empty zam-zam jugs. These are five-gallon plastic containers, labeled as zam zam and a bunch of Arabic script. Jerry broke the code on getting laid in Malaysia and Indonesia. Zam-zam water is the holy water of Islam, coming from the official well that Mohammed drank from before ascending to Heaven. Unavailable to most Muslims, zamzam is worth more than the blood of Christ, its “worth its weight in come,” as Jerry would say… adding “life is good!”

Lynn and Jerry have snagged a trip to K.L. tomorrow, Kuala Lumpur, where the beer is flowing, and the women fuck your brains out for a five-gallon jug of zam zam water. Jerry, Lynn and the rest of the guys put the empty containers in their flight bags.

After checking into their rooms in K.L., they will fill the jugs up with ordinary tap water from their bathrooms and head out on their eternal quest for LBFM’s, Little, brown fucking machines. The zam-zam scam is alive and well in Malaysia.

“Lucky bastards,” Mark says. “I haven’t gotten a layover in K.L. yet!”

“Still playing with yourself, Rabbi?” asks Lenny Craig.

“No, Lenny” I say, “Fm non-hormonal… I was startin’ to worry about why Fm not jerking off as much as I used to, but I discovered the reason. When I lay down now (pointing at my huge gut), I don’t see my pecker anymore…out of sight, out of mind…it’s over the horizon,” I conclude.

Lenny advises, “Rabbi, my philosophy is very simple. If I wake up and I see a fist in my bed, I fuck it!

“Mark: “I have to pour beer on my hand to get my date drunk.”

Schwarmer-time in Jeddah is the social event of the evening, and timing is critical.

The group would meet in the lobby of the Sofitel at 6:30pm, allowing for the fifteen minute walk to Jaw’s cafe, gave us forty minutes to eat between evening prayers.

“Great White” is the patriarch of the Turkish family that works the Schwarmer stand. He would greet us on the sidewalk with a big smile, his gleaming teeth and juicy gums extended impossibly forward somehow, giving the place it’s name.

Every evening, as we marched in and took our positions, Charlie Pickles’ nasal twang would sing-song out, “Two chicken Schwarmers, extra pickles….Pepsi.”

By the second month of the Hajj, all the Turkish brothers, Stinky, Reeky, Jaws and Achmed were singing along with Charlie (and the rest of us):

“Two chicken Schwarmers, extra pickles….Pepsi.”

Charlie Pickles, of course, became Charlie “extra pickles', or just plain “extra pickles.”