Have I ever told you this one?

Last summer, I took Kristin to a resort in Pennsylvania for her birthday. The trip was fun, blah blah blah.

Anyway, on Sunday I was scheduled to fly out for work and couldn’t make it back to Detroit in time for my flight, so I caught one out of Pittsburgh, via Chicago, to Seattle.

As is so often the case, horrible summer storms over Chicago delayed our flights for hours, so a bunch of us retired to the bar across from our gate to kill some time.

As I recall, there were four of us, all older business travelers, heading out or going home. We shared a few laughs, a few stories about the road and about our families.

After a few minutes, another group from our plane rolled into the bar. The group, lead by a tall, blond, frat boy-type was heading out on a business trip. For them, time on the road meant an opportunity to party, and a delayed flight wasn’t going to delay the celebration.

These guys were pounding beers and buying shots, it wasn’t long before we were all drunk courtesy of whatever accounting firm or marketing company they worked for.

Of course, because I’m a responsible husband, I was calling the wife throughout the day to keep her updated. Each call, of course, was less coherent than the one before. All the wife could say was “I’ve watched that Airline show, they won’t let you on the plane if you’re drunk! Do your best to act sober.”

I did my best, and getting on the plane would end up not being a problem. Of course, running through O’Hare to catch a connection while drunk was a bad time, but that’s not where I’m going with this story.

While still at the airport bar in Pittsburgh, I started talking to a guy sitting next to me. He told me that he had been in Youngstown visiting family, and that he was glad to be going home to Chicago.

The guys’ subtle hint at an unfavorable opinion of Youngstown was enough for me to start in on my Youngstown rant.

I fucking hate that town. Yes, yes, I know I hate lots of things — Hot Topic, snow and holy fucking shit, Hipsters — but Youngstown takes the cake. That town is the asshole of America — the stinky, festering, infected rectum of these United States.

I went on and on, perhaps I poured it on a little too much and a lot too loudly, but I was like six beers and too many shots of jaggermeister to even remember in.

I told this guy about how everyone who lives there is miserable, how I live in Detroit and I’m even scared of it. I told him how my co-workers and I call it Stabbytown.

It was that declaration that set the lady sitting next to my new friend off. I hadn’t noticed her, but she had been listening all the time.

She was typical of what you might find in a Youngstown bar at closing time. She was rocking the mall bangs, tight jeans revealing a wicked camel toe, Tweety Bird t-shirt, you know the type.

Anyway, she just lost her mind and started screaming at me about how wonderful Youngstown is. I was just an ignorant asshole from Michigan, she said. She went so far as to stand up and get in my face.

At first, I didn’t really know what to do, so I kind of just smirked at her, rolled my eyes and laughed. That didn’t do much to calm her down, she just kept getting angrier and angrier.

Meanwhile, the entire bar had gone silent, everyone just staring at us in disbelief.

After a few more seconds — that felt like endless minutes — of her screaming, she threw some money on the bar, shouted “and if you ever come back, I’ll show you why you call it Stabbytown!” Then she turned and stomped out.

I just turned around to the guy who had been sitting between us and said “I hope she’s not on my plane.”

Everyone just sat in stunned silence until the frat boy who had been buying drinks shouted “Get that man a shot!”