Your eyes are like Ohio.
Boring and flat.
Your head is like a bulldog’s.
Sturdy and fat.

Your face - the ocean floor.
Jagged and mysterious.
Your mouth could use some work.
The snaggletooth is serious.

You’re seasoned -  like a rug.
Treaded on all day.
Your soul is Greenland.
Cold…and far away.

Your scent is a basement.
Unique and slightly musty.
Your personality - a pizza.
Unhealthy, cheap and crusty.

Your hair is like a wheat field.
No…a field of weeds.
Unsightly and overgrown.
Your dandruff is the seeds.

Your voice - a cheap guitar.
Twangy, out of tune.
Annoying yet charming.
Just like a raccoon.

I used to think that people watching was only something that my Grandpa and I enjoyed doing at the Randolph County Fair, or that my Dad and I enjoyed doing at Kroger in Oxford. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that people watching is actually a favorite pastime of a lot of my peers, and my years of experience people watching have also bolstered my initial inkling that we Americans are among the most sickening/impressive of all the sets available for observation.

Comedians exhaust this topic, but it’s undeniable that the best place to observe our species-wide idiotic nature is on an airplane. We complain about the food, the turbulence, and how long everything takes…but the main problem is the passengers. Where does the sense of entitlement come from? We are charged a mere $200 to have an entire crew of trained professionals launch us off the ground in an insanely complex steel tube loaded with jet fuel and advanced electronics, safely bring us back down an hour later half way across the country, and we still feel that the obnoxious Blackberry conversation with our frat brother about law school assignments is more important than the emergency water landing instructions.

I recently sat in the very back row on a late night flight from Baltimore to Dayton. Everything was perfect, and when we touched down and taxied to the gate, the people in the front of the plane began to exit their seats, remove their bags from the overhead compartments, and be on their way. Naturally, just like the 400 billion flights in the history of the world before this particular flight, most passengers seemed to understand that sitting in the back of the plane meant that they would be in the back of the pack when it came to getting off the plane. However, one mother, in her mid to late thirties, seated about two rows in front of me, scurried to get her bags out, as well as the bags of her two daughters, before anyone else had even gotten their seatbelt off. It didn’t really pay off. It never does.  It turns out that I got to listen to her bitching for 20 minutes in an otherwise silent and calm cabin.

HER VERBAL QUESTION: UGH! It’s so hot on this plane…why can’t they keep the air conditioner on and keep this sucker runnin’ for us?

MY MENTAL ANSWER: How about we let the pilot and crew worry about the mechanical intricacies of this beast, and the proper time to switch on and off the HVAC machinery, and you just eat tiny pretzels and stop creating a vomit colored cloud of attention around your family.

HER VERBAL QUESTION: I’m SO glad I’m off work tomorrow.

MY MENTAL ANSWER: Selling your ex-husband’s Playstation games on eBay and binge eating Ding-Dongs isn’t a job.

That gives me an idea. Ding-Dong-Bong. Ding Dongs and milk processed in a blender, then ingested through a beer bong. Anyway, I didn’t actually speak any of these responses, although I desired it, but her behavior did continue to decline.  The people getting off were now about five rows in front of her, and she told her daughter, “When you see movement, just go.” The daughter then pointed in frustration at the man in front of her and said, “People are still getting up in front of me. They’re not letting me out!”

Of all the people in front of us, one girl remained. One girl. A kind, patient, model passenger who waited her turn. She got up, started to shimmy her bag out, and then the hate filled woman literally said, “JESUS! Ma’am don’t do this! DO NOT DO THIS!”

I did emit a verbal response this time. It was a solid, sarcastic, drawn out, “WOW.” The girl gave her a scowl, but I feel that an “unintentional” suitcase wheel to the orbital bone might have been more effective. With her two daughters, (someone please help them), she stormed in front of the sweet girl, and was gone.

Mystery #1: Why did she say “Ma’am?” How can you interject a respectful, formal, female title in the midst of a bitch conniption? What does this mean?

 Mystery #2: Where is she in a hurry to be at 11:00 pm on a Sunday? Hell? Does Hell close at midnight? Is Hell even open on Sunday?

The best part of this entire story is that I was pretty much the last person to get off the plane and I stopped in the jetway for 30 seconds to get all my bags situated, and when I got inside the airport, I passed her before I got to the next gate. She had at least a five minute head start on me. She went through that entire dog and pony show only to walk through the airport slower than an old man in a wheelchair who is being pushed by another old man in a wheelchair. I hope her car didn’t start.

There's a minivan with the doors bashed in out in front of The Golden Corral
Three sweaty slack jawed broads fall out, ready to devour a cow.
They storm on in while the concrete cracks and the hostesses start to pray
Please God Almighty don't let big mama clog up the toilet today.

First to get destroyed is the mac n cheese with the strawberry Pop-Tart crust
Diet Coke reacting with gravy and cheese, stomachs beginning to bust.
Poop stained sweatpants picks at his crotch, then fingers the taco meat
Greasy Belly slides along buffet, mashed potatoes all over his feet.

20 screaming hell sent mohawked freaks snorting sugar packets up their nose
While red faced big mama sucks hot fudge through a yard sale garden hose.
Now greasy belly ate too much, so he gets up and starts to trot
Flops on into the bathroom, dumps in the urinal instead of the pot.

10 million calories consumed this day, and only 12 people are dead
War broke out over the sheet cake, a glass of pop shattered on my head.
If you want to lose faith in America, or see a downturn in your morale
Spend a Sunday with a notepad in a booth at The Golden Corral.

BRAD OTTO – CONTRACT RIDER
I’d like to take this opportunity to thank you for allowing me to play at your venue. I promise that it will be a memorable show, and I only ask that you adhere to a few basic requests, which in my case, are necessities for a perfect show, and more importantly…a happy life. 

LODGING: For one week prior to and one week after the show date, I would like to be lodged in a third floor bedroom in a house owned by a couple who have been married at least 60 years. Ideally, they would have Minnesota accents and would generally make me uncomfortable with their conversation topics (boils, goiters, cat breeding, male enhancement devices, etc.). The room I am in should be between 50 and 100 square feet, be equipped with lemon flavored shag carpeting and/or teak wood parquet in 9¼” x 9¼” squares. I want all the walls painted black, and all the trim and crown molding painted something darker than black. In the room, I want a metal folding chair covered completely by an alternating pattern of rhinestones and dragonfly wings. Other than that, all that should be in the room is a golden pot, in which I will poop.

BREAKFAST: On the day before the show, at 6:35 am, I will require the following items to make sure that the most important meal of the day is of adequate quality and also to ensure the survival of everyone involved with bringing my show to your town:
(1)       steamed falcon or similar bird of prey, do not de-feather!

(1)                 kangaroo tail, tossed in sausage gravy

(12)              scrambled eggs, preferably from a cobra or pit viper

(24)              12 oz. cans of Natural Light beer

(1)                 carton of  “Virginia Slims” cigarettes

(7)                 large bags of Mike-Sells “Puffcorn Delites”

(5)                 refrigerator boxes filled with cream cheese

(5)                 gallons of piranha salad

(1)                 teaspoon of tap water 

IMPORTANT: These items are required at breakfast the day before the show. On show day, I will be unconscious until 10 minutes before start time, and will require no attention of any kind. 

LUNCH: At exactly 12:00 noon every day, I need a U-Haul full of McGangBangs delivered to me and my crew. In case you’re stupid, a McGangBang is an entire McDonald’s McChicken sandwich wedged between the patties of a McDonald’s double cheeseburger. My crew consists of a bunch of people.  I will also need pop.

DINNER: I’m flexible, but I like to fall asleep immediately after swallowing the last bite, so a NyQuil laced crab cake and a quick, powerful blow to the head is usually provided, silently, by a tall man with a shady disposition and a natural willingness to hurt others. 

TRANSPORTATION: I require an Abrams M1 tank for myself, with a miniature seasoned wizard in swaddling cosmic patterned clothes as a chauffeur. Additionally, each of my crew members will be provided with their own rickshaw. The rickshaws must be pulled by tiny armies of rabbits wearing monocles and top hats (350 rabbits per rickshaw). My cavalcade must be led into and out of the venue in this manner:

                1st – Two red-assed baboons with shotguns

                2nd - Me 

DRESSING ROOM: The dressing room will be a 10,000 square foot geodesic dome constructed of Kevlar, titanium, and those little brass fasteners that are on manila envelopes. If any other materials are used, the facility will be immediately burned to the ground and you will find me laughing hysterically amidst the roaring flames. Inside the facility, I will need travertine floors throughout and large panes of glass placed at random locations with plenty of throwable objects nearby. I need a wax sculpture of Dolph Lundgren as Ivan Drago from Rocky IV that stretches from floor to ceiling. There has to be a mariachi band following me around every second I am in the dressing room, continuously playing the Mexican Hat Dance. Other items to be placed in a urinal trough and hung by a yellow tow rope in the exact geometric center of the dressing room are listed below:

-          Oversized inflatable sledge hammer

-          Llama

-          Bowflex

-          Oil painting of a scantily clad Anthony Michael Hall riding Falcor from         Neverending Story 

DURING THE SHOW: Shut up. No sounds from anyone or anything other than myself will be permitted. 

In conclusion, I would like to thank you for allowing me to come to your city. I look forward to the day where we can all sit around a fondue pot and scream obscenities at each other.