Whoo-hoo! I'm in Chicago O'Hare, an airport not many realize is named after Sniffles O'Hare, a once-famous cartoon rabbit later eclipsed and finally obliterated by that unstoppable show-biz wonder, Bugs Bunny.

Sorry. I'm delusional. I can't believe that the only chairs as dinky as airplane seats are the ever-attached vinyl rear-slings they always have by airline gates. But here I am. And there's my ever-gorgeous wife, reading a magazine in the chair across from me. She's such a babe. If they weren't forever piping in warnings about how the TSA is vigilantly watching out for Overtly Suspicious Behavior, I just might stand up right here by Gate F2, and ... fall on her. My legs! They're like cement! I can't move. When they call us to board, I'm just going to sort of roll over onto the giant suitcase-on-wheels belonging to the guy sitting beside me, and see if I can't get him to inadvertently wheel me onto the plane.

That's not going to work. He's not a big guy. I am. I see ugliness ahead.

An older-type saying is that airports are great places to people-watch. You know why that saying is old? Because flying used to be glamorous. Today, flying is like getting jammed for six hours in a stuffed freight elevator at Wal-Mart. NOW people watching at the airport is just ... cruel. Cuz nobody WANTS to be seen at the airport. Everybody looks like they're on a bender. It's like a giant slumber party for zombies.

Whoa! They called our seating ... call thing! Bye!