I’m standing in the security line at JFK and my mind suddenly freezes. I realize that in my carryon is 101 Degrees, an unbelievably rare and expensive French cologne, the key ingredient of which is the aromatic sweat the endangered African rhino releases while mating. (I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to get close to a mating African rhino, but if you have, you’d know why the cologne costs $10,000 per milliliter.) What’s that? You want to know about the name of the cologne? Well, it derives from Simplicity itself: It weights 101 ml., you see. And you don’t have to be a fancy French philosopher-slash-mathematician to conclude: Ergo, the bottle costs $1,010,000.
But, without exception, liquids weighing more than 100 ml. are not allowed on board, so I quickly consider my options.
What if I offer the security people half a bottle? Then I’d only have 50.5 ml. And besides, wasn’t it Socrates who wisely stated, “The line between bribery and generosity is often more slippery than a nude, oiled wrestler”? But—and this is just my manly intuition talking—the security folks don’t look like they want to discuss moral relativism. Instead, their look suggests a strong desire for a lunch break.
Okay, but what if I spray one milliliter of this cologne on myself? Then it’ll weigh 100 ml. Brilliant! So I step away from the line for a few minutes and spray forcefully, like I’m watering my enormous front lawn—about which I actually know nothing, since my gardeners Jesus, Maria and Joseph take care of the lawn.
Soon an armed and camouflaged security hotshot tells me it’s the size of the bottle that counts. Then another heartless bastard leans over and tells me I have to throw my precious 101 Degrees away or check it in. “But my plane leaves in 40 minutes!” I plead. “And uber-first-class boarding is in 20 minutes! Don’t you understand the concept of time, people!” My Julliard-perfect cries of despair fall on deaf, insensitive ears. So I do what any self-respecting aristocrat would do in this situation: I spray the entire bottle on myself, and, needless to say, feel like a million bucks.
Smelling like a thousand rose gardens and one fragrant rhino, I fall into seat 2B in uber-uber-first-class (an upgrade!), hoping no one will bother me. Just as I’m about to start reading the feature story in Diamond Smuggler’s Weekly, a middle-aged Englishman approaches me, thinking that I have taken his seat. With reluctant politeness, I show him my ticket, but this chap can’t make it out because his thick trifocals are on his forehead instead of his Limey nose. “Are you 2B or not 2B?” he asks. After realizing that he had made an unintentional pun, he starts laughing frantically. Soon he starts to cough, cry, burp and hiccup merely because the manly scent of my cologne is beginning to spread faster than the thickest, milkiest San Francisco fog.
It doesn’t take long for the nearby passengers to start complaining about the “strong scent from the gentleman in the second row.” Like a series of car alarms, one baby starts to cry after another after another after—well, you get the idea. Oh, hello! Just as I’m about to slap the closest infant to my right, a beautiful young woman wearing a green, V-necked SAVE THE AFRICAN RHINOS T-shirt comes up to lecture me about how “cruel and inhumane” the sweat removal process is and how it affects the rhino psychologically. “Do you ever stop to think about that?” she asks. “Do you? These beautiful animals have thick skin, but they still have feel—
Suddenly I hear my name over the intercom. “Mr. Belvedere, the captain would like to have a word with you. Please come to the front of the aircraft.” The captain, Alexander Nosovich, appears gentle, but speaks bluntly: “Mr. Belvedere, there is no easy way to say this. The passengers and my staff have requested that you be removed from the airplane. Immediately.”
“What?! Is it the cologne? Look, I had no—
“No, it’s not the cologne,” the captain retorts, “although the smell does make it look like you have something to hide.” Nosovich takes a deep breath and looks directly into my beautiful royal-blue eyes. “It’s your beard, Mr. Belvedere. It’s so dark and unkempt. It makes everyone nervous. Frankly, I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Why that’s absur—
“Whoa! Take it easy, Mr. B. It is the cologne. That was just a little pilot humor. Now please exit the airplane. This flight to Cologne must depart in five minutes.”
