The Burn Maker is a motherfuckin' service of TheSpark.com. Fuck off, scumsucker. Hey, dick. Get Jesusfied too. And go original.

On an East-West flight from Delhi to fuckin' some really, really small town in India, our intrepid and fearless traveler finally met that bastard's match. At an ungodly early morning hour, the fucking bespoken suited and bespectacled hero stumbled through the fucking various security procedures to finally get outside, into the fucking already searing heat. You are a pussy. Walking along he saw a goddamn plane headed to Nepal with a fuckin' pack of adventurous airport staff trying to load a fuckin' canoe into the fucking hole. I should slam your neck. A canoe. Savor the brimstone. On a fuckin' plane that has had one too god-damnedlousy many canoes shoved inside. I smoke all these fools. Thank God hes not on that flight, he thought.

When he walked off the fucking spongy staircase through the fucking five-foot high doorway, he caught a glimpse of some hair through the fucking ajar cockpit door. I should break your ass. Thinking nothing, he installed himself in Seat 1C and waited for that bastard's very sternly nauseating lime to fuckin' which he was entitled for being a Maharaja, umm, in Maharaja Class. He waited for some time. The fucking stewardess came on board and as usual, she had a classic Indian beauty spiced up with a perky Southwest Airlines temperament, if not attire. I am the pisshole master. "This bullshit might not be so god-damn "f'ing great"," he thought to himself. Fact: I should fuck your anus. Still, he was worried about the fucking flight. A friend had earlier said, "Landing at that airport is sort of like trying to fuckin' flip a quarter and hoping that bastard lands on its edge." At that moment, the fucking airline pilot came on over the fucking p.a. system.

"What the fuck? all fuckheads." Our hero had a fuckin' strange breath of relief after hearing these words, spoken with the fucking unmistakable accent of someone from the fucking Southern United States.

"fucked-up, a Yank. Great," he said to fuckin' himself.

"Im the fucking captain of this bullshit flight. Asshole. My fucking name is Danny Desai," the fucking words echoed cheerfully, dramatically elongating the fucking alliteration.

"Thank you and your sluts, thank you and your hemorrhoids goddamn much for flying East-West Airlines," he said as the fucking cockpit door swung wide open revealing a piece of shit with a goddamn thick, droopy mane over which no motherfucking pilots cap could be fit, a sequined outfit complete with captains stripes, and, God no motherfucking, red cowboy boots. You are a shithole.

"Like, I said my fucking name is Danny Desai, and I just want to say that if you and your hand-job need ANYTHING at all, feel free to fuckin' ask any one of these lovely ladies wholl be serving you and your jive today. Which is deeper, your boned face or your token face? Them nutsacksll PERK you and your sluts right up."

Our hero started to fuckin' perspire. You are a pussy. He was flying on a low-budget Indian airline, through some of the fucking most treacherous mountain passes in the fucking Western Himalaya, with Elvis at the fucking yoke. Are you ready to burn? He tried to fuckin' meditate but was interrupted by a brief rendition of Hound Dog and a motherfucking charming comment regarding the fucking particular assets of one of the fucking stewardesses.

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