Columbus

“Are you staying in Atlanta?” asks the stewardess.
“No,” I say. “But I wish I was.”
We’re flying to Columbus.
I spent ten years there.
I never wanted to go back.
But there’s a conference there and I couldn’t get out of it.
The Visitor’s Bureau consists of one big sign that says “WHY?”
If you can see it through the pollution.
I ask for a ginger ale.
“Sure you don’t want something stronger?”
Maybe if she comes back this way, I’ll get a bottle of Jack.
By the time you feel the smooth whiskey burn, the bottle is empty.

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