SO here goes my petit rant about the damn airport. Every time I fly back into Hartsfield Jackson… in this case from Fort Campbell, KY… you come up those damn escalators and there spread out in front of you is the bane of my existence. What’s that you ask? Well, it’s all those damn people waiting to great their friends and family. There are the jovial friends with an extra latte in hand. The parents with signs and balloons. And the worst are the lovers, with flowers and kisses. This inevitably puts me in a foul mood which is never lifted by the ridiculous amount of time I have to always wait for my damn suitcase to emerge from the depths of hell… otherwise known as the baggage handling area. Then there is always that idiot who has to look at the tag on every g d black suitcase, no matter what size or shape. He’s probably thinking… “Gee, did I bring a small or large suitcase, a duffle bag… or perhaps that golf bag.” Mentally I’m screaming “You asshole, if your having this much trouble go home and explain it to your wife so she can put some tacky rainbow ribbon on it… or even better bring her floral luggage next time.” Of course I think we all know how I feel about kids. My solution is to place them in the same hazardous materials bin that you have to place your lighters in before you go through security screening. That’s it for now.