Airline Travel Was Already Terrifying: Why I love those airports...

So now we have to worry about terrorism on airplanes, huh? Be prepared to leap out of our seats and beat the snot out of anybody who whips out a nailfile to trim up their cuticles.

Terrorism on airplances. Hmm.

Let's just recall our last flights, shall we?

Had to get to the airport three hours early, most of which is consumed by the surly, molasses-in-winterterm gal at the check-in desk. God forbid you step foward into her space a milisecond too early; you will be lucky to avoid a waterboarding. Wait for the official signal involving a slight arm movement designed to illustrate just how bored she is with her job and how inconsequential you are to the universe, accompanied by a primordial grunt.

The rest of the time will be consumed with gulping down an airport meal which tastes like shingles and toilet paper, and costs about 40 bucks. If you like, you can at the same time enjoy watching ape-like creatures dump your carefully-packed bag, touch your underwear thoroughly, and then wad everything up and stand on the bag to get it closed again.

This is important, because the airline will actually charge you a higher fare for that one lousy bag they allow you, than you pay for your own seat. This is understandable, since you are just going to Chicago but chances are your bag will end up in Maui.

Next they will take away your shoes, belt, keys, wedding ring, earrings, coins, pacemaker and pride, as you are herded through the check-in area with slightly less dignity than cattle entering a slaughterhouse. Don't smile at these workers, you will be wrestled to the ground. Happiness = suspicion.

Next, you will find that your reservation has been electronically lost somewhere between the check-in counter and the gate. That's okay though, because your flight is both overbooked and two hours too late, which will lead to you sleeping that night spread over three fiberglass airport chairs under newspaper in some city that you never knew existed.

My favorite part is the pat down that you get from the sadistic lady with the wand. While six guys wearing turbans and t-shirts advertising explosives companies are waved on board with a smile, if you are wearing a priest collar or are a little old lady with a walker, can you say cavity search?

In the event that you actually get onto an airplane at some point, you'll get battered around like Tom Brady in a playoff game in the land rush to get to your seat, where you will be told that the cushion is a flotation device, despite the fact that it feels to be made of formed concrete.

Despite the mad rush to get people speed-seated, you will then sit motionless for an hour or so, while they try to sober up the pilot and find the bolts that were supposed to hold the wings on. You won't mind this, because you will be semi comatose thanks to the exhaust fumes, all of which are routed directly from the engines straight into the little fan thingie that blows specifically into your face from above your seat.

Hint: don't dare ask the stew for anything - they are there primarily to flirt passionately with the other stews of the same gender, and dealing with passengers is an annoyance they are not about to put up with.

It is at about this point that you discover your $600 ticket doesn't include "lunch" - though you do get a third of a cup of warm pop after the stew bashes the solid steel cart into your elbow and knee repeatedly. They will play an outdated movie chosen for its boredom factor, probably something starring Rob Schnieder, but you won't get to hear it unless you have a pocket full of exact-amount cash to spring for earbuds that sound like teeth scraping against a blackboard..

The bathroom? I'd just hold it. Unless you are a professional contortionist with a high tolerance for methane. Lot of stress among airline passengers these days, or so it smells.

Chances are you won't be able to get up anyway. The second the plane levels off, the 600-pounder in the seat in front of you will have cranked his recliner back, crushing your sternum and pinning you with your nose in his bald spot for the next three hours. Both your legs are dead asleep by then, since airline seats are designed for passengers the size of Mini Me.

The plane flight itself is as smooth as riding a wooden toboggan over a roughly cobblestoned street. The pilot grew up playing PlayStation and assumes he gets extra points for each pocket of turbulance that he can find and how close he can come to t-boning Piper Cubs. It will take three tries to get the landing gear on this old beater to go down, and you during this moment will make a mental note to pack the Depends for the next trip.

Assuming the plane lands somewhere other than in a river, your fellow passengers will sweep you to your feet, where you will stand painfully for an hour or so, your head cocked against the ceiling and your spine collapsing upon itself, until someone finally thinks to open the door.

Just in time to find out your hotel has given up on you and gave your room to one of Tiger Woods' mistresses, and the rental car company gave their last car to Travis Pastrona.

As you finally limp to the ramp, the stew gives you a friendly little shove stumbling into the milling, angry throng, and mutters, "Have a lousy day."

If somebody on board happens to set their crotch on fire, yay - more entertaining than the lousy in-flight magazine.

Worry about terrorists on airplanes? Heck no. The airplanes ARE terrorism.

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Okay, it's a little odd that the city sells liquor at its hotel and golf course, and then arrests people for drunkenness. But I get it. Some "golfers" may never desire to get the clubs out of the trunk, and head straight for hole 19. And travelers may expect a buzz with their resort. No big whup, as long at they aren't driving that way.

But the other day in the waterpark, I saw tables piled high with beer cans, and a liquor advertising sign on the wall of the Snack Shack. Really - do we need drinking at a waterpark full of small children?

Another reason why I love winter in Iowa department:

Let's say "you" are walking out of the local Quiznos, and you spy one of those huge monster snow stalagtites hanging off your car body, rubbing against the tire.

Being resourceful, you give it a little kick. And a couple more. Wow, this sucker is solid ice, it isn't going anywhere.

No sweat. You back up a couple steps. What you need is a running start. You kick the thing hard now, determined. Again. Won't budge. Okay, it's a matter of pride now. You against the elements. You coil into a crouch, summon every ounce of strength, hurl yourself at the wheelwell with an animal cry, in a spastic, wild whirlwind flying kung fu move and crash your foot into the icy intruder. Nothing. You are beyond rational thought now, smashing against the ice over and over and over until your foot feels like a baggie full of broken light bulbs, streams of curse words in multiple languages you didn't know you knew are streaming from your reddened face, and the car is rocking violently back and forth with the repeated blows...

Until you feel eyes on you. Why is that family standing behind you with aghast looks on their faces? And all the customers of the restaurant pressed against the frosty window staring at you with mouths hanging open?

It's then that you realize. YOUR car, same make and model and color, is actually two parking stalls over.