Hi. I Live Out by the Airport


Why, hello there. I couldn’t help but notice your fine selection of goods in your grocery basket. I see a lot of Healthy Choice products as well as a copious amount of sugar-free munchies. What is that? Snackwells? I didn’t know they were still around. Crazy!

Watching your weight, are ya? Heavens, I don’t know why! You’re quite striking, if I may say so. If you were to take a gander at my hand-held basket here you would see the exact opposite. Nothing but Steak-Umms and Manwiches in here. I’ll let you in on a little secret: (whispers) I haven’t had a carrot medallion or a leaf of lettuce since the Reagan Administration. What can I say, I guess I just crave canned flesh.

I don’t think we have met, no. I’m sure you would remember. Manwich diet, army fatigue pants, penny loafer shoes, Hawaiian shirt. You see, this isn’t my usual Shop-Rite. I live, uh….further out. Out by the airport, to be exact.

I didn’t want to come out and give you that personal information so early in our encounter. I wanted to develop a good rapport with you first, because when I tell women that I live out by the airport, they get this look on their face—like what you’re doing right now! It’s like an apprehensive sneer. A fear-sneer.

Your fear-sneer looks quite becoming on you. Of course, if I were wearing it, I’d be cu…no, wait. Nevermind.

I don’t know what the stigma is behind the people who live out by the airport. Are we presumed to be insane because of the constant noise pollution of jet engines soaring over our heads and shaking our flimsy habitats like dead leaves on a tree? Or is it because if I were to commit a heinous crime I could easily board a plane to a neutral country before they found your body? Well, there’s no reason to be so concerned with that; I am a very trustworthy guy. In fact, if you come on over, I can make you a Manwich or two as well as show you my wingless butterfly collection. And as a show of trust, I will leave my door wide open, giving you every opportunity to escape.

Oh, jeez. Did I really just say that? Escape? My, what a poor choice of words! Flee. I meant flee.

Hey, you want to hear some airport puns? No, just hold on. It won’t take long. I have places to be as well, but I’m making an effort here. It’s hard to meet women at the airport, ya know. They can be so flighty sometimes. Nyuk nyuk!

So listen…what are your plans for tonight? I was going to pick at some scabs, but I could easily resche…

Hey, don’t get snooty with me, Ms. High and Mighty with your Snackwells! A simple ‘no’ would have been fine, you didn’t have to hurt my feelings. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I gotta jet.

Still nothing, eh? OK. Bye.