Dear 8 lb, 6 oz Baby Jesus....

It’s the unholy hour of 6:15 a.m. on Tuesday morning, and I’m standing in a security line at SFO airport. There’s about 30 people ahead of me in line, so I’m not alone in my enjoyment. As we shuffle through, one of the TSA agents reminds travelers that there liquids permitted on the plane. Evidently, the tourists ahead of me in line didn’t receive a copy of the memo outlining the well known travel restrictions and were forced to throw away 3 bottles of Napa’s finest wine that they had attempted to smuggle on the plane. Ouch.

As I finally make my way through the line, the splint on my arm draws the attention of security and I am whisked away to a special area for closer scrutiny. Evidently there’s something in the Security Level Orange level that requires individuals wearing medical-related devices to submit to extra-special security screening. God knows what happens to travelers in wheelchairs once the security level is cranked up to Red, but I think it involves a full body cavity search.

Unfortunately for my readers, the rest of my travel to St. Louis was pretty non-descript. I had an entire row to myself, passed out about 10 minutes into the flight, and slept pretty much the entire way. No Shrek-like seatmates, no vomiting octogenarians, no flatulent teens.

What can I say about St. Louis itself? I’m basically out in the suburbs, right near the nation’s largest strip mall (congratulations, Missouri) and I can’t get over the combination of Red State, Wal-Mart, and the general level of unhealthiness. People smoke in bars and restaurants, the serving sizes are ridiculous, and everything appears to be deep fried, even when it doesn’t need to be. The best example of this was one of the dessert options at dinner one night -- deep fried cheesecake. Yup, that pretty much sums up St. Louis for me.

Fortunately for my audience, my flight back from St. Louis on Thursday contained its normal level of heightened annoyance. Within 5 minutes of taking off, I notice that the airplane smells vaguely of vomit. And by vaguely, I mean “strongly.” But it’s no big deal. I’m sure that I can hold my breath for 3.2 hours.

It turns out that the source of the smell was the woman in the row directly in front of me, who is eating some fragrant delicacy that I think is some combination of cod, vinegar and sweat socks. God bless her for sparing people in the airport by waiting until the flight had commenced before breaking into her dinner. What a thoughtful lass.

The voice over the intercom just announced that the in flight movie would be “Talladega Nights - The Ballad of Ricky Bobby.” Wow, things are starting to look up. The rest of the flight I alternate between “Ricky Bobby” and Season 2 episodes of “Arrested Development” and was perfectly content. It even helped me to temporarily forget the putrid stench which was the dinner of the woman in seat 14D. Good times.