Qantas flights have been showing a French documentary about the female orgasm on one of the airline's television stations, where it's the most popular program. Boring analysis of the day, courtesy of a professor: "There's a growing sexuality in our culture and perhaps it reflects how sexual material is being made increasingly available."
No. It's because flights are boring as hell, and people want to keep their minds off of the fact that they are suffering a thousand embolisms per minute in their legs, the crying smelly baby sitting near them has just emitted a combination of fart, puke, and poop smell and sounds at the same time (HOW?!!), the people on your left and the right have taken up both of your armrests!
COME ON PEOPLE. GIVE ME AT LEAST ONE ARMREST. WINDOW SEAT GUY YOU HAVE NO EXCUSE.
And then, when you ask the flight "attendant" for more peanuts, you get told, "sorry, but we can't do that." Why? Because the plane might explode from my gluttony?
Oh, and the very moment I get a lavatory, someone rushes to bang on the door and demand that I go to the bathroom faster. Number one, you aren't helping the process you knob, and number two, go bother the other stall who has been in there the entire flight (probably crying tears of pain from the air bubbles traveling to his brain.)
Finally, bowels and bladder clear, and armrests successfully annexed, I sit down to relax, only to be told that we're about to land, so put your seat up and do nothing but read the SkyMall Magazine for the next two hours because we're in a holding pattern for reasons only the President of the United States and one asshole in the airport gets to know.
But yes, I'm sure that it's because we're sexed up tarts. That must be it.