On Kevin Smith and airports.


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Fun fact — I attended a college newspaper conference in Atlanta back in ’99, during which we went to a Dogma screening with a lengthy Q&A by the affable Mr. Smith.

My friends played Never Have I Ever, and I, being straight edge, drank soda and thought happily how I’d be the only one who didn’t feel like hell when we got up for our flight home in five hours.

Those hours came, and with no time for breakfast, I consumed the only thing resembling food in the hotel suite — a half-empty carton of OJ.

It didn’t take a half hour for me to find out how quickly OJ goes bad if you leave it out of the fridge. By the time we ran into Silent Bob at the airport, I was casting about for the bathroom (I didn’t make it). It was only Mr. Smith — not my friends — who was concerned about my health and dignity as I vomited across the Atlanta airport check-in.

So if I’m ever on a flight where Kevin Smith gets kicked off, I’m giving him my seat, and then that humane fatty can spread comfortably over two chairs. He’s an alright fellow in my book.

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