I recently returned to my old stomping grounds to do some stomping. Said grounds are in the Midwest, where the beer is cheap, the people are simple, and grandma still makes the best damn apple pie you ever had.

On my way home, I realized something – you fancy, big-city broads have no idea how well you have it.

I was sitting on the red-eye at LAX hoping the plane wouldn't be filled as people are passing by trying to clumsily cram their over-sized carry-ons into the overhead bins the same way they crammed that last donut in their faces at breakfast.

There's an empty seat next to me which I've got a white-knuckle clamp on.

Thankfully, this isn't Southwest Airlines, where any asshole can roll onto the plane at the last minute and take the empty seat next to you. This is a classy plane – one of order, where seats are assigned for people capable of making plans.

When the door closed I was left with a row that consisted of this: broad, empty space, me. Marvelous!

The row across from me sports a similar situation. Empty space, dude, his woman.

Now, if you were the woman in this situation, you might think to yourself:



“We can [insert inappropriate activity here]!”

But if you're with the typical tool from the Midwest, don't expect much.

Any self-respecting man would make sure his woman was comfortable, possibly moving over a seat to let her lay her head on his lap while she falls into a deep, dreamy sleep while his old pal Jack Daniels keeps him company.

Well, not our Midwestern pal, whose attire screamed tourist.

First he tried to lie across the three seats, putting his legs on his girlfriend's lap while trying to rest his head on the aisle-side armrest.

As a logical person might expect, this wasn't comfortable for either party and the experiment ended in approximately two minutes. The highlight came when our pal looked up with a confused look wondering aloud why he couldn't get comfortable.

He tells her she's pretty.  She tells herself she's happy.

He tells her she's pretty. She tells herself she's happy.

Then it was time to fall asleep together. Again, any self-respecting (and smooth) man would execute this move with class, as it's the easiest one in the book. All you have to do is let slumber happen and hopefully let it flow together.

For the Midwestern man, however, this wasn't much of a “move” because, frankly, this chick already agreed to be his girlfriend and he just wanted to snooze.

But then, this isn't a move that takes any skill. All it takes is the ability to fall asleep because you have to fall somefuckingwhere.

All of this nonsense made one thing clear to me: This chick obviously settled for a dude who…I don't know, has a job?

At no point during all of this awkward maneuvering did he once bother to ask her preference, if she was comfortable, or offer to let her use the extra seat.

Things are different in the Midwest.

I've been gone for a long time and picked up the rules of engagement as they apply to Los Angeles and had long forgotten about Midwestern women. They settle. Even the attractive ones.

They settle because they don't know any better.

It's the reason why, when I open a door, buy a drink or act like something less than a douchebag to a woman in the Midwest, her panties generally fly off.

Most of their men don't know how to treat a woman like a woman.

Meanwhile, you fancy, big-city broads expect – no, demand – us to open our wallets, possess the chivalry of a knight, and treat you like a princess.

While I have no problem doing that, it would be nice if you'd pause to think just how lucky you are, or maybe even offer up something more than a superficial “Thank you.”

After all, you could be sitting on a plane at midnight with an empty seat in your row and some jackass trying to lay down with his feet on your lap.

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