In an airport, everything is acceptable. Diets are out of the question--there's only gorgeously greasy fast food available. Think eight dollars is outrageous for a slice of pizza and a soda? Hah! It's not your fault, don't feel guilty--you're a captive audience. Desperate for a beer because you're on your way to spending four nights in your childhood bedroom, in the twin futon your parents bought after they sold your bed, but worried that it's only 9:30 in the morning? No problem! Everyone else at the airport bar thinks it's midnight, because they just flew in from Norway. Buy a round and sing a rousing round of the Norweigian national anthem with them!
And manners are not an issue. Running at top speed in a crowded public area while shoving people out of your way and hitting small children with your luggage is no problem. Not only will people not get pissed, they will often cheer you on. They know that is if wasn't for getting that last space in the good parking lot, they would have been relegated to the holiday overflow lot nine miles away like you, and it would have been them running.
In other news, I still miss the King. I haven't heard from him in several days, which means he is either (a) off work and therefore unable to reach a phone or computer, or (b) working insanely hard 22 hours a day because there is only one of him and they need about four of him. Either way, I'm at my parents' house, my mother is worse than ever (her Alzheimer's symptoms have been worsened by a bad flu), and if I don't get some vodka soon, I might kill someone.