By: Michael Mele

Uncensored

Russell Peters on Air India: The XXX Flight

Man, flying Air India is like signing up for a gangbang with your relatives—nobody wants to admit they’re there, but everyone’s sweaty, loud, and fighting over the last samosa.

First of all, the boarding process? Pure chaos. They call “zone one,” and suddenly every Indian in the airport rushes the gate. Doesn’t matter if your ticket says seat 32B, your auntie’s trying to sit in business class with a Tupperware full of parathas.

The flight attendants? They’re not sexy like on Emirates. Oh no. These are aunties in saris who look at you like, “Beta, you’re too thin, have some more food.” Meanwhile, she’s ramming a tray of curry into your crotch like it’s foreplay.

And the food! Holy shit. Butter chicken, daal, curry, chapati—it’s a five-course meal at 35,000 feet. But six hours later, that cabin turns into a flying diarrhea factory. You open the lavatory and it smells like somebody dropped a bomb of cumin and regret. You’re in there squatting, praying, sweating, like, “This is not turbulence—this is revenge from last night’s lamb korma.”

Then comes the turbulence. Bro, Air India turbulence is next level. Plane’s bouncing so hard, my balls clapped together like they were making applause. The pilot comes on like: “Ladies and gentlemen, please fasten your seatbelts. Not because of safety—because this bitch is about to twerk in the sky.”

And the uncle sitting next to me? Snoring so loud, it sounded like he was trying to deep-throat a didgeridoo. Then he leans over, falls asleep on my shoulder, drools paneer tikka all over me. I’m like, “Bro, this is not the Mile High Club. Get off me unless you’re buying dinner first.”

Speaking of Mile High Club—you ever try to get freaky in an Air India bathroom? Forget it. You open that door, and it’s like a crime scene. Curry stains on the walls, bidet spraying like a possessed fire hose, some dude’s pubes stuck to the mirror. By the time you unzip, the mood’s gone. Only way you’re getting off is jerking it with a wet nap.

And the landing? Holy shit. The pilot doesn’t land the plane—he parks it like an Uber driver late for prayer. Plane slams the runway so hard, my foreskin retracted from the shockwave. People clapping like it’s a cricket match: “Yes! We survived! Jai Hind!”

But you know what? I’ll still fly it. Because Air India is the only airline where you can join the Mile High Club and get chlamydia just from sitting in the seat.