That’s right. I’m at the airport on this fine December 26th. It is four in the morning, pre-butt-crack of dawn, sustained by last night’s Christmas fried chicken and rage. And if I die in this godforsaken airport, cremate me, and snort my ashes in front of TSA, buy a commemorative plaque and cement it into the O’Hare floor in my name. For Elise Tran, who hated this airport and everyone in it. Send forth Danny De Vito, and may the good and wise man present each and every person on this list with a single rotten egg. And tell them, Danny. Tell each and every one of them, from me, from my chapped lips pale with the tint of sweet and nearing death–tell them I told you to tell them to suck it.