When I fly I never sit next to Hooters waitresses in miniskirts, and now I know why: The airlines are kicking them out.

In September, 23-year-old Kyla Ebbert, a college student and Hooters waitress from San Diego, was removed from a Southwest Airlines flight for an overly provocative outfit. (The plane was not yet in the air.)

Though the airline did allow her back on the plane after she covered up, her ordeal became national news. Even “Today” and “Dr. Phil” picked up the story, inviting Ebbert on air to model her allegedly inappropriate attire: a white tank top under a tight green sweater, and a white skirt of the length a pregnant woman might use if she wanted the fetus to get some natural sunlight. In other words, this outfit was freaking AWESOME.

Then a few weeks ago, Playboy rekindled Ebbert’s media exposure when it hired her to appear nude online. This is nothing new; lots of flash-in-the-pan celebrities have posed naked after their brief encounter with fame. Paula Jones was in Penthouse, Jerri from “Survivor” was in Playboy, Laura Bush was in Hustler, etc.

In October I met two University students trying out for Playboy; I would have called them to get their opinion on this story, but unfortunately I forgot the cardinal rule of journalism: Always ask Playboy applicants for their phone numbers. (I also would have offered to make spaghetti for the three of us.)

Male air travelers have put up with a lot – stale peanuts, no urinals, non-female flight attendants. But now we’ve lost the greatest thing about flying: the chance that a super-hot 23-year-old Hooters waitress would be assigned to the seat next to us for hours and hours, and THERE WAS NOTHING SHE COULD DO ABOUT IT.

To compensate for this loss, I have begun flying exclusively on airlines with open seating, and I developed a way to make sure I get a row all to myself. The key is, when somebody begins eyeballing the seat next to me, I begin a conversation. “Howdy! Flying out of Chicago today?” I ask, in a polite, even tone that suggests I might keep the chat going for five or six hours, even if it’s a 90-minute flight. This usually does the trick.

The ban on the stunningly hot also puts any chance of me joining the Mile High Club on life support. Of course, the club’s mere existence makes me nervous every time I use an airplane restroom, because I do not know how recently it served as the induction locale for new members. I didn’t used to think people actually did this in commercial jets. Fortunately the Internet, always a bastion of higher learning, has convinced me that basically all you need to do is bring a camcorder onboard.

How these trysts occur, I have no clue. I have a hard enough time fitting just me in the lavatory and closing the bi-fold door (which, as a fun practical joke on us travelers, the airlines have designed to open inward). Plus, I’d be nervous about somebody’s body parts accidentally hitting the flight attendant call button, because that might expose the endeavor to other passengers. Or possibly it would just be a convenient way to order champagne for afterward. A classy lady deserves a classy beverage.

Ebbert is an admitted member of the Mile High Club. She did not join on a Southwest flight, however. According to her interview with Playboy, she had her “airplane ride” in a private jet. You can do pretty much anything on a private jet. You can even bring onboard your own bottled water.

I guess what I’m saying is, if anybody wants to go halfsies on a Cessna, your share is only $1.5 million. Kyla Ebbert is invited.