He details his experiences when given the opportunity to fly in a F-14 Tomcat… If you aren’t laughing out loud by the time you get to ‘Milk Duds’, your sense of humor is seriously broken.

This message is for America ‘s most famous athletes: Someday you may be invited to fly in the back-seat of one of your country’s most powerful fighter jets. Many of you already have. John Elway, John Stockton, Tiger Woods to name a few. If you get this opportunity, let me urge you, with the greatest sincerity…. Move to Guam. Change your name. Fake your own death! Whatever you do. Do Not Go!!! I know.

The U.S. Navy invited me to try it. I was thrilled. I was pumped. I was toast! I should’ve known when they told me my pilot would Be Chip (Biff) King of Fighter Squadron 213 at Naval Air Station Oceana in Virginia Beach.

Whatever you’re thinking a Top Gun named Chip (Biff) King looks like, triple it. He’s about six-foot, tan, ice-blue eyes, wavy surfer hair, finger-crippling handshake — the kind of man who wrestles dyspeptic alligators in his leisure time. If you see this man, run the other way. Fast.

Biff King was born to fly. His father, Jack King, was for years the voice of NASA missions. (‘T-minus 15 seconds and counting’. Remember?) Chip would charge neighborhood kids a quarter each to hear his dad. Jack would wake up from naps surrounded by nine-year-olds waiting for him to say, ‘We have lift off’.

Biff was to fly me in an F- 14D Tomcat, a ridiculously powerful $60 million Weapon with nearly as much thrust as weight, not unlike Colin Montgomerie. I was worried about getting airsick, so the night before the flight I asked Biff if there was something I should eat the next morning.

‘Bananas,’ he said.

‘For the potassium?’ I asked.

‘No,’ Biff said, ‘because they taste about the same coming up as they do going down.’

The next morning, out on the tarmac, I had on my flight suit with my name sewn over the left breast.  (No call sign — like Crash or Sticky or Leadfoot. But, still, very cool.) I carried my helmet in the crook of my arm, as Biff had instructed. If ever in my life I had a chance to nail Nicole Kidman, this was it.

A fighter pilot named Psycho gave me a safety briefing and then fastened me into my ejection seat, which, when employed, would ‘egress’ me out of the plane at such a velocity that I would be immediately knocked unconscious.

Just as I was thinking about aborting the flight, the canopy closed over me, and Biff gave the ground crew a thumbs-up. In minutes we were firing nose up at 600 mph. We leveled out and then canopy-rolled over another F-14.

Those 20 minutes were the rush of my life. Unfortunately, the ride lasted 80. It was like being on the roller coaster at Six Flags Over Hell. Only without rails. We did barrel rolls, snap rolls, loops, yanks, and banks. We dived, rose and dived again, sometimes with a vertical velocity of ” 10,000 feet per minute. We chased another F-14, and it chased us.

We broke the speed of sound. Sea was sky and sky was sea. Flying at 200 feet we did 90-degree turns at 550 mph, creating a G force of 6.5, which is to say I felt as if 6.5 times my body weight was smashing against me, thereby approximating life as Mrs. Colin Montgomerie.

And I egressed the bananas.

And I egressed the pizza from the night before.

And the lunch before that.

I egressed a box of Milk Duds from the sixth grade.

I made Linda Blair look polite. Because of the G’s, I was egressing stuff that never thought would be egressed.

I went through not one airsick bag, but two.

Biff said I passed out. Twice… I was coated in sweat. At one point, as we were coming in upside down in a banked curve on a mock bombing target and the G’s were flattening me like a tortilla and I Was in and out of consciousness, I realized I was the first person in history to throw down.

I used to know ‘cool’. Cool was Elway throwing a touchdown pass, or Norman making a five-iron bite. But now I really know ‘cool’. Cool is guys like Biff, men with cast-iron stomachs and freon nerves. I wouldn’t go up there again for Derek Jeter’s black book, but I’m glad Biff does every day, and for less a year than a rookie reliever makes in a homestand.

A week later, when the spins finally stopped, Biff called. He said he and the fighters had the perfect call sign for me. Said he’d send it on a patch for my flight suit.

What is it? I asked.

‘Two Bags.’

Don’t you dare tell Nicole.

A little-known fact…….

After digging to a depth of 10 feet last year outside Buffalo, New York, scientists found traces of copper cable dating back 100 years. They came to the conclusion that their ancestors already had a telephone network more than 100 years ago.

Not to be outdone by the New Yorkers, in the weeks that followed, a Los Angeles, California archaeologist dug to a depth of 20 feet somewhere just outside Oceanside. Shortly afterward, a story in the LA Times read, “California archaeologists, reporting a finding of 200 year old copper cable, have concluded that their ancestors already had an advanced high-tech communications network a hundred years earlier than the New Yorkers.

One week later, a local newspaper in Green Bay, Wisconsin reported, “After digging 30 feet deep in his pasture near the community of Sobieski, Wisconsin, Ole Olson, a heck of an engineer and a self-taught archaeologist, reported that he found absolutely nothing. Ole has therefore concluded that 300 years ago, Wisconsin had already gone wireless.

Just makes a person proud to be from Wisconsin!!!

MAKE SURE YOU READ IT TO THE END

VERY FUNNY

My wife was standing in the kitchen, preparing our usual Soft-boiled eggs and toast for breakfast, wearing only The t-shirt that she normally slept in.

As I walked in, almost awake, she turned to me and said softly, “You’ve got to make love to me this very moment!”.

My eyes lit up and I thought, “I am either still dreaming or this is going to be my lucky day!”.

Not wanting to lose the moment, I embraced her and then gave it my all; right there on the kitchen table.

Afterwards she said, “Thanks,” and returned to the stove, Her T-shirt still around her neck.

Happy, but a little puzzled, I asked, “What was that all about?”.

She explained, “The egg timer’s broken.”

A teacher gave her fifth-grade class an assignment:

Get their parents to tell them a story with a moral at the end of it.

The next day, the kids came back and one bone began to tell their stories.

One little girl began,

“My father’s a farmer and we have a lot of egg-laying hens. One time we were taking our eggs to market in a basket on the front seat of the pick-up when we hit a big bump in the road and all the eggs went flying and broke and made a mess.”

“What’s the moral of the story?” asked the teacher.

“Don’t put all your eggs in one basket”

“Very good,” said the teacher.

Another little girl raised her hand and said,

“Our family are farmers too but we raise chickens for the meat market. We had a dozen eggs one time, but when they hatched we only got ten live chicks.”

The moral to this story is, “Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched.”

“That’s a fine story,” said the teacher.

A little boy at the back of the class is waving his arm wildly.

“Yes, do you have a story to share?” inquired the teacher.

Yes ma’am, my daddy told me this story about my Aunt Maureen;

“Aunt Maureen was a flight engineer in Desert Storm and her plane got hit. She had to bail out over enemy territory and all she had was a bottle of whiskey, a machine gun and a machete. She drank the whiskey on the way down so it wouldn’t break and then she landed right in the middle of 100 enemy troops. She killed seventy of them with the machine gun until she ran out of ammunition. Then she killed twenty more with the machete till the blade broke. And then she killed the last ten with her bare hands.”

“Good heavens,” said the horrified teacher,

“what kind of moral did your daddy tell you from that horrible story?”

“Stay the hell away from Aunt Maureen when she’s been drinking.”

A minister decided that a visual demonstration would add emphasis to his Sunday sermon. 

Four worms were placed into four separate jars. 

The first worm was put into a container of alcohol. 

The second worm was put into a container of cigarette smoke. 

The third worm was put into a container of chocolate syrup. 

The fourth worm was put into a container of good clean soil. 

At the conclusion of the sermon, the Minister reported the following results:

The first worm in alcohol . . . . . . Dead . 

The second worm in cigarette smoke . . . Dead . 

Third worm in chocolate syrup . . .. . Dead.  

Fourth worm in good clean soil . . . Alive … 

So the Minister asked the congregation,  “What did you learn from this demonstration?” 

Maxine was sitting in the back, quickly raised her hand and said . . . “As long as you drink, smoke and eat chocolate, you won’t have worms!” 

That pretty much ended the service!

Today is International Disturbed People’s Day. Please send an encouraging message to a disturbed friend… Just as I’ve done. “Hang in there sunshine, you’re special!”