As I sat in seat 20D on the flight from San Juan to O’Hare, quietly contemplating the fate of Trent Lott (R-MS) with, frankly, an embarrassing amount of schadenfreude, it occurred to me (1) that among the many groupings that can be made to divide the world into two types of people, one of most telling is that which separates those who find the sitcom “Yes, Dear” (a show that’s inexplicably still on the air and is wedged between the “King of Queens” and “Everybody Loves Raymond” on Monday nights as part of the CBS answer to “Must-See-TV” formally known as “Married Men are Morons on Mondays at CBS,” sponsored by household products advertising in the Inept-Father genre, such as the one with the man who can’t feed his toddler without making the kitchen look like a tornado-damaged Chef Boyardee processing plant but who, fortunately, has access to the "Swiffer" brand household cleaning product, which will clean everything in the kitchen, including the toddler, just in time before Mom gets back from the mall, so that when she inevitably asks, “Did you feed Timmy?” he can reply, “Yes, dear, no problem at all,” with a wink and a nudge to those of us at home, who are privy to the secret, still unknown to his wife, that he does in fact belong on Married Men are Morons night), hilarious (as exemplified by the man sitting in seat 23C who, at intervals at least as consistent as, and far more frequent than, Old Faithful, erupted in a burst of noise that nearly defies description, except to say that it must be the precise sound the now-anonymous 18th century Scotsman had in mind when he coined the mostly onomatopoetic word “guffaw,” causing me to look up from Michael Chabon’s The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, a book I’m glad won a Pulitzer Prize, because otherwise I‘d read it and say, “If this guy writes this well and didn’t even win a Pulitzer Prize, then, forget it, I’m not even going to try to write at all, because I’ll obviously never get rich and famous with my talent level,” to ascertain that the 14th consecutive episode of “Yes, Dear” was still on the overhead monitor, currently showing a gag involving the "Swiffer" brand household cleaning product, whereupon I had to choke back the urge to defenestrate the gentleman in question, since this would undoubtedly result, for physics-related reasons, in the defenestration of all the rest of us on the plane, into weather considerably less pleasant the 85-degrees-and-sunny days we’d just had for a week on Virgin Gorda, not to mention the fact that we were 35,000 feet in the air), from those of us who are sane, and (2) that I must start playing the lottery again (because every time I squeeze myself into a seat in the rear of the airplane, I think, first, “More room throughout coach, my [expletive],” and second, looking at my fellow Caribbean-vacationed passengers, “These are the people to whom Emma Lazarus was referring in The New Colossus, except that they are much better fed, to the extent that they are apparently the reason gastric bypass surgery was invented” and once the lottery numbers hit, I’ll be able to hop into the chartered plane and take off immediately upon arrival at the airport, calling out to politely those left behind in the terminal, “So long, you huddled masses, you wretched refuse – try breathing free on the exhaust fumes of the Gulfstream G400, suckers"), which leads me to my point, which is, of course: Trent Lott, what an [scatologically-based body part], huh?