after he sits in the crowded, dirty waiting area at the airport, crammed full of people who don't believe in checking their luggage (because the airline always loses it), and so who each has a boatload of carry-on stuff clogging the already narrow aisles, and half the waiting area is filled with people from the flight at the next gate which is late leaving, just like his flight, and so he's been forced to eat a Cinnabon and a venti latte from Starbucks, and now he's all hopped up on sugar and caffeine, and the only announcements being made about the flight delays sound like Charlie Brown's teachers, "Mwahmwahmwahwahhwahhhwahh, Mwahmwahmwahwahhwahhhwah, Mwahmwahmwahwahhwahhhwah," when he can hear them above the screeching of the hyperactive kids who have decided to play a game of "tag" in the waiting area, and then they finally tell him to line up, which he does, with 100 other people, including the delightful family with the tag-playing children right behind him, whose mother can only say "cut it out" over and over because she's too busy tending to the infant in arms who is wailing, with nose visibily running, and then he waits while everyone pushes forward, finally finds his seat, oh joy of joys, he's in seat 34B, a middle seat, last aisle, right next to the toilets, and what luck, that family with kids are all around him, and by the time he reaches his seat, all the overhead space is gone, so he will have to put his bag under the seat in front of him, which will limit his leg room to about 3 inches, and the family with kids, they've got diaper bags, and talking Elmo doll "Elmo Loves You! Elmo Loves You!" and a bag of toys (Parents Magazine says to bring a bag of toys to occupy kids on planes), and Baby is coughing, sounds like a lung might be ready to come up, but no, it's that piece of Cinnabon baby ate, yakked up all over the seat next to Patrick, and now the flight attendants are snarling at us to take our seats, and so Patrick straps himself into his narrow seat, right between Mom with Runny-nosed Baby Yak-it-Up on her lap (because god forbid she spend the money to buy the kid a safe seat when she can fly the munchkin for free, right?) and on the other side, it's our 3 year old pal whose favorite thing in the world is to keep squeezing Elmo over and over to make him talk, "Elmo Loves You! Elmo Loves You!" and finally, everyone manages to get into their seats, and put on their seatbelts, and the baby with the runny nose gives a huge cough right at Patrick's face, and the plane pulls away from the gate, and Patrick heaves a sigh of relief, because he knows he'll be on the way soon, and the plane taxis for a few minutes, then stops. No announcements, nothing. "Elmo Loves You! Elmo Loves You!" Cough. Cough. Cough. "Elmo Loves You! Elmo Loves You!" Cough. Cough. Cough. Patrick spends the next 15 minutes trying to decide which foot massager he'd buy from the Sky Mall magazine. "Elmo Loves You! Elmo Loves You!" Cough. Cough. Cough. Now the older child in the seat in front starts. "I'm BOOOOORRREEEED. I'm BOOOOORRREEEED." She decides that the best game is to keep popping up, and sticking her tongue out at the Elmo-lover, while Mom says, "cut it out!" "Elmo Loves you, Elmo Loves you!" "MOOOOMMMMM" "Cut it out" "I'm Bored!!!" Fast forward an hour...Patrick has now figured out which toenail clippers are his favorite in the Sky Mall magazine. Suddenly, the smell, that rank, amazing, open sewage smell only emitted by children under the age of 2, starts wafting through the back cabin... and because she's already changes the little tike twice, Mom has no more diapers. Sorry Patrick. "Elmo Loves You! Elmo Loves You!" Cough. Cough. Cough. "Elmo Loves You! Elmo Loves You!" Cough. Cough. Cough. Fast forward another hour. Patrick's eyes are now red from the toxic fumes, and the parainfluenza virus he has caught from the infant. The Elmo doll's batteries are, mercifully starting to die, but it's now saying "ELLLLL-MOOOOO LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOVES YOUUUUUUU" in a deep, Barry White like voice. Fast forward another hour. The children are now tearing up the safety card and hurling pieces of it at each other, the toxic waste is leaking out of the infant's dirty diaper, and the smell is competing with that of the toilet, which is now clogged and overflowing as well. So far, we've had no announcements, other than "we're next in line for takeoff." The air on the plane is dry, but they ran out of those miniature 4 ounce bottles of soda and water long ago. Elmo lover thrusts a sticky "baba" toward Patrick, how kind that he wants to share, but Patrick politely declines. Fast forward to hour four...when Patrick starts coming up with ideas for a new column all about how great it is to have a Passenger Bill of Rights...

You and I could collaborate on the first airline horror thriller that involves both ebola virus AND Elmo!

And we'll make Patrick be the line editor!!

Anyone else think, if Dick Cheney doesn't drop dead of a coronary between now and the end of his evil reign, that there HAS to be a job at Fox for old Darth Cheney?

Does he smoke enough?

Does he really qualify as an actual "smoker?"

Is he an OP smoker, bumming a smoke off an aide here or there?

Filterless, or filters?

Or just an occasional social smoke?

Quick, someone at Salon get Debra Dickerson right on it! After all, who better to write the "Is Obama Enough of a Real Smoker" story?