Open Letter to That Guy Who Sat Next To Me At The Airport Bar

By Ron R. Clark

I didn’t address you directly, because (a) I’d hate to look like I’m calling you out, and (b) I don’t remember your name. In the grand scheme of things, it isn’t important – you were a financial advisor from Tampa running out the clock on a layover before your connector to Denver arrived, and I live about ten miles from this airport and was killing off a weather delay on a flight which my ride-needing buddy was on. The odds of you and I encountering again are about as infinitesimal as my running over a moonwalking penguin who happened to be carrying back-to-back Lotto-jackpot-winning tickets in his mouth – and I’d rather use my chance-in-a-lifetime longshot to loot the dead dancing penguin. That being said, the number of people who think, speak and act like you do is immeasurable - thus through your example I wish to address them in an attempt to diffuse their potential dickholery.

No, sir, I do not know that one guy who almost won Fear Factor – and jabbing your elbow into my ribs while pleading “C’mon… you know!” will not release any related recollections which may be stuck inside my thoracic cavity. I don’t watch Fear Factor – spending an hour of my life watching Red Bull-addled attention whores eat severed caribou pecker au gratin while dangling from a water tower doesn’t strike me as a sound investment of my fleeting life resources - so I know not of what or whom you speak. Thus if the pinnacle of your lifetime’s brushes with greatness is handling That Guy's brother’s 401(k) rollover, I weep for you.

If you wish to strike up a conversation with a total stranger strictly for the purpose of killing time, may I suggest other sources? There was a television in the corner of the bar featuring baseball. Odds are good that an American male enjoying a beer at a bar would have a feigning interest in baseball – at least they’re better than him caring about the interest rate on your condo lease.

Conversations tend to flow better when both parties give half a shit about the subject matter, so if you don’t know the other party from Dead Uncle Bob, try to choose a topic with potential for common interest. Common interest AND neutral ground – that’s important. Keep in mind that I don’t know you; therefore if you piss me off, I have no qualms about pummeling your logorrheic ass with such severity that you could eat nothing but pudding for a month.

I offer these simple common-sense suggestions, Sir, to increase your chances for perpetuating a tension-free layover as a service to the greater airport-bound public at large. Please take them to heart. If you find the whiskey sours impede your recollection of these helpful axioms, avoid drinking them before launching into conversation. With respect to the standard Floridian businessman’s moth-to-flame-like attraction to liquor establishments and the subsequent vampiric draining of their middle shelves however, you may want to exercise the easier-to-remember option of shutting the fuck up.