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Today, I flew back to NJ. Mario dropped me off at Houston Hobby Airport, and after we soaked each other's well-muscled shoulders with veritable cataracts of tears, we parted ways. I went to find my plane and Mario went to go buy some tissues.

Hobby Airport is like a trailer compared to the grandiose mansion airports I'm used to. It only has one employee - Carl Fratratchet, a middle-aged clone of a middle-aged black man. When I came in, Carl ushered me to the ticket window. After he maxed out my credit card on account of my bags having one too many dimensions (AirTran charges you an extra $500 for each dimension past 2D), he took me through security, where he patted me down and took a urine sample. Luckily I haven't done any hard drugs since I was in my mother's womb, so I passed with flying colors.

After the carry-on flammability test which relieved me of both carry-ons, Carl took me over to the terminal, made sure I knew where to find my plane should I wish to follow through with my ticket purchase, and then walked me over to the duty-free shop and sold me some Starburst. When I'm on a plane and it changes altitude, my ears tend to complain with blood and brain tissue discharge. Starburst keeps my saliva running, so I can equalize pressure at a greater pace.

Finally Carl walked me to the plane - a Boeing 707 two-seater discontinued in 1956, got in the pilot's seat and flew me home. Now that's what I call a valuable employee.

Mark: I took your stuff out of the dryer.
Mario: because you were washing?
Mark: no, drying. But good guess.

(at Starbucks, last day in Houston)
Mark: does the Pumpkin Spice Latte sound good?
Mario: to me? No. But to you it sounds good. Dang! Really good!

(talking about someone at Mario's work)
Mark: is she hot?
Mario: she's 80 years old, at least.
Mark: answer the question!

Yesterday we found out that Mario thinks 'Jew' is a racial slur.