What the hell is it about transatlantic flights that they never stow away enough alcohol to make it across the gott damn pond with a reasonable buzz? Yeah yeah yeah, prohifookinbition and the not-so-great depression promoting healthy livers for a sadder America. Well I worked long and hard to get mine all sugary and puffy and I'm not going to let some draconian regime tell me not to swig. A couple miles out we hit international waters and start breaking out the firewater. Pan American World Airways be damned.

There is a unique phenomenon that occurs during high altitude flights called hypoxia. What happens is that as your plane climbs higher and higher into the aether less and less oxygen is available in the atmosphere, and, not so coincidentally, into your blood. Less oxygen in your blood and tissue to some is not such a good thing. To a guy like me who takes his drinking seriously it is Godhead. Talk about getting pie-eyed. The effects of alcohol at high altitude is breathtaking. Like the first time you baited Johnny Law into a dark alley with a trail of donuts or getting to third base with a semi-comatose and perfectly forgettable non-cousin of your choosing. It's that intense.

Somewhere between take off and "where's my pants" time most of the flight attendants disappeared. The mystery is clouded by a lack of sober witnesses. See what happens when you skimp on the in-flight peanuts?

We Landed in Paris just as the sun was coming up. It took DennyCrane most of an hour to get it into those thick French skulls that we didn't know what happened to the Stewardesses. Apparently their grasp of our far superior language was suspect at best no matter how loud we yelled the words at them. Stoopit foreigners.

Legal issues settled, moonies greasing the appropriate palms, we set out to the legendary Le Crazy Horse Paris for our first taste of French culture. The French may be lacking on proper linguistic skills but their peeler bars are first rate. The highlight of the show was when a beautiful Mademoiselle descended from the rafters straddling what can only be described as a giant red pillow shaped like a hot dog. Now thats entertainment. The show was unfortunately cut short by the riots. Yes, plural. Riots.

la F Verte. Thats what the bartender kept pouring into my glass. I finally asked Cathy Parks what that means since she is comprehensively smarter in all manner of things domestic and foreign than all of the rest of us combined. 'la F Verte means Green fairy", she said. I was to find out after all the shooting that it wasn't in fact a barb aimed at either my skin colour or masculinity but a pseudonym for a drink called Absinthe. A simple misunderstanding. We didn't do much damage with the choppers seeing as how we were all tripping balls anyhoo. That Absinthe is some potent stuff. The gendarmes ran us out of the bar so we did the only logical thing. Started flipping cars in the street and setting them on fire. It's like a national pastime for the French. Soon everyone was joining in, good guys and Frenchies alike. It was a glorious example of two countries coming together in a quest for all out hooliganism. That's us, international incident starters.

The second riot occurred moments after we boarded the train for Afghanistan. The locals didn't take kindly to us liberating their town of all of its champagne. Pfft. I've seen how they make it. The stuff grows on little trees. How hard could it be to stomp up a few more gallons? It was quite the scene as we pulled out of the station; men and women crying in the street like babies, me on top of the last car wiggling it at them and calling them putos. Making friends everywhere we go.

Next stop, Afghanistan. Some of the guys seem visibly excited. Gaara has been staring out the window clutching his zippo lighter to his chest and chanting "hindu kush" over and over since we left. Must be some kind of religious temple or something. I'll telegraph more after we get there.