I flew over Utah on my way back to Oklahoma. There was a three hour layover in Salt Lake City, all of which I spent in the airport. While yet in the air I marveled at the stark and desolate land 30,000 feet below, and of those Mormons who walked from Illinois to establish communities there.

Whatever one thinks about their theology, it simply cannot be denied that they had guts. But then, many Americans 150 years ago had guts. It took guts—lots of them—to push West from the Appalachians and subdue the land. Disease and savages took their toll. But still the Americans came. How many of us today could do something like that?

From an examination of the folks in the airport, not many. It is cliché to hear that Americans are fat. And it is also true. I lived in Argentina for a decade and every year flew back to the States for a visit. The Argentines are some of the most attractive people on earth—and the women are simply gorgeous. Any male who disagrees with me is certainly a homosexual. The Argentines are thin too. Upon landing in the US the contrast shocked. It could have embarrassed me but then I was thin as well. But that was 20 pounds ago.

A question, please: Why do grown men dress like high school kids? You know, the baseball caps, t-shirts, tennis shoes and shorts that are the standard uniform of adolescents around the globe. At the airport were legions of men attired thus. Scipio to such men: Grow up. Dress appropriately. Wear long-sleeves and a collar when you go to the airport. To dress as a child is to be ridiculous. If you complain that your sons are immature then the reason might lie in your wardrobe.

And for the love of God, why do strangers think that the world cries out to see their naked legs? Pudgy, fleshy-legged men with exposed skin belong in Las Vegas casinos, not waddling about in public. Scipio to such men: I have no desire to any part of you naked. I assume—unless you live in San Francisco—that you have no desire to see any part of me naked. Cover your flabby legs lest I sue you for making me ill.

Another question, please: Why do fat guys wear t-shirts emblazoned with some sport team’s moniker? It would be more honest to wear t-shirts advertising Burger King—and such restaurants were everywhere in the Salt Lake City airport.

So were bookstores. Each had prominently displayed Hugh Hewitt’s hagiography of Mitt Romney, A Mormon in the White House. I have no idea if the book helps or hurts Romney’s chances to be president. I only know I will vote for the Republican candidate. There is—literally—no chance in Hell I would ever vote for a Democrat for president. Perhaps that is because the Democrat Party supports inserting scissors into the brains of a baby. That party also supports special rights for questionable males who insert their…but never mind.

If Hillary wins the November election maybe Hewitt will write a book titled A Demon in the White House. At least Madame Hillary has the decency to cover her ample flesh of her ample legs with her ample pants suits.


I am sure you understand.

Anyway, the Salt Lake City airport was extraordinarily clean and organized. This befitted the city it served. Oddly, there were many smoking rooms, none with doors and some only a few feet from a childrens’ play area. And there were lots of these, a good thing as Mormons have lots of kids. This fact drives the New York Times and its acolytes into a Romney-hating frenzy. They really, really hate the guy.

Which is of course a sure sign that it fears Romney and that Romney is a good man. You see, the NYT serves its father, and Romney serves Another.

I left Salt Lake City on a Delta flight. Some minutes later I was miles above Moab, Utah. I imagined that I was down there in my Jeep on some of the miles and miles of 4-wheel drive trails.

Come next year and imagination will not be necessary.

(Update: From R. Emmett Tyrell)

As the earth gets warmer, our fellow Americans could begin to shed even more of their clothing than they do in summer. Frankly, in this season of shorts and tank tops, I have seen enough flab. The naked midriff is a fashion that I found distinctly anaphrodisiacal. Most American anatomies, obese or otherwise, are best left covered.