By Jack Edwards

Think of your three favorite states. Ask others to list their three favorite states. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, they will not list three states. They will list the same state, three times in a row. And that state, of course, will be Oklahoma. The Oklahoma state motto says it all: “Oklahoma – we’ve got miles of it!”

I’ve spent a lot of time in Oklahoma over the past two years. In fact, I’ve just returned. But during this last visit, I’m afraid I may have caught something. Mind you, I am not a board certified physician, but I believe I’ve correctly diagnosed my condition. It’s an incurable virus called Oklahoma-itis.

Oklahoma-itis presents the following symptoms:

1. A continuous need for drastic changes in temperature. Almost an addiction. A deep desire for what I call “weather whiplash.” 110 degrees one day, subfreezing the next.
2. A fundamental transformation in your body’s physiology. In the event you suffer a tragic accident and need a lifesaving blood transfusion, your body will accept barbeque sauce in lieu of whole plasma.
3. A tendency to refer to a 200 mile gale force wind as “an afternoon breeze.”

Rumor has it that the U.S. Center for Disease Control expects Oklahoma-itis to be the world’s next great pandemic. Oklahoma sits at the geographic center of the contiguous states (You know this, of course, because Oklahomans won’t shut up about it). The CDC expects the virus to spread over the country like mosquitoes at a nudist colony.

Well, here’s my heads-up to the CDC. Identifying the source of any new virus is the first step to finding a cure. And I think I found the epicenter of the Oklahoma-itis virus on my last visit. I am reasonably confident that Ground Zero is located in a suburb of Oklahoma City at a little place called Leo’s BBQ. I stopped by for a plate of barbeque because Guy Fieri fell all over himself and about had a heart attack over how great it was on an episode of Food Network’s Dinners, Drive-ins and Dives.

Here’s how to get to Leo’s. Plug the address into your iPhone and follow it blindly. Arrive at what appears to be an abandoned storage shed. Then, just as you begin whacking your iPhone because it has obviously failed you, look up and you’ll see the sign. If you don’t want to catch the bug, put your containment suit on in the parking lot prior to entering, although this will prevent you from eating, so you might was well just drive back where you came from.

Here it is:

Once you arrive at Leo’s, here are a few tips for enjoying the experience. By this point, you’ve already crossed the line and contracted the virus, so relax and enjoy:

1. Order everything. Leo’s actually serves a plate that contains every type of barbeque they make – the Leo’s Special. They also have a “Leo’s Special Lite,” if you’re willing to part with that much of your dignity.
2. Dive in. To help keep your field of vision clear, there is a five-mile long roll of paper sitting on every table (not paper towels – paper towels are perforated; that’s for sissies). There’s also a 50 gallon squeeze bottle of barbeque sauce within arm’s reach. I suggest my ratio: two parts barbeque sauce to one part barbeque.
3. Save room for the free slice of strawberry-banana cake. Yeah, it’s free. Not that you’ll have much room left in your stomach. Yes, I found space – but I’m a professional.
4. After the meal, immediately go lie down to begin the recovery period.

As you lie there bloated, your stomach protruding in pain, half expecting contractions to begin, think of your three favorite states. You won’t be able to think of three. You’ll just think of one state, three times. And, of course, that state will be Comatose.