There are bad times to have thoughts. You know those nasty little inner paranoia thoughts that you get in stress situations? This is a little missive about one of those. I am not blogging about AT yet, because I have a War Stories party at the Elephant House tomorrow night, and I don't want to give up spoilers before the party.
But I will share this one, because I feel like writing a bit.
Anybody that has flown lately knows what self important pricks the TSA rent-a-cops are. I know a few things about security, and I realize why they are so picky and humorless, but it still gets annoying. Take off your shoes, give up the 'roid cream grandpa! You Taliban looking motherfucker! Drop the denture grip granny and assume the position!
So anyway, I'm lined up at the Alexandra airport, drop my carry on bag into the conveyer, and then have one of those thoughts. As I watched my bag wander under the x-ray machine, I thought, "hmmm what the fuck did I do with those fucking flash bangs anyway?"
Holy Mother of Fuck! There is a very real possibility that this gink working the x-ray machine is going to spot a flash bang grenade in my bag! Maybe two! Those SF guys were not paying too much attention to their flash bangs… I did remember to put them all back after I got done looking at them, didn't I? Now, rationally, I know that I didn't swipe any of the grenades, I just pondered it. But at the same time I was using my carry on bag to haul ammo and det cord and all kinds of other waaaayyyyy off limits shit. The lizard brain started to twitch… What if I had missed some shit? I started to have visions of prison cells and roomies with names like "Big Leroy." The gelatinous mass of humanity crammed into the xxxl polyester uniform working the x-ray machine flashed me a look and whispered something to the equally porcine inspector next to him.
The x-ray tech pointed to a search area with the ceremony and severity of St. Peter banishing a sinner from the pearly gates. What in the fuck was in that damn bag? Det cord? Fuses? Ammo? A switch blade? My expandable baton? What the fuck did I leave in that bag? Visions of prison loomed before me, and for some reason, my paranoia chose to fixate on those damn flash bangs! Manthor the hogbeast was clearly not up to the 20 foot speed waddle he was attempting. Perspiration poured out of his forehead, and he reached for his pistol. Fuck! This humongous bastard was going to save the state a trial and just gun me down right here!
At this point, the lizard brain was totally in charge. It was scampering around my skull like a mad monkey, bouncing off the walls and chittering in fear. Wait, round man was just a little too much man for his gun belt and he was trying to free his belly from the holster, not his pistol. Slamming my bag on the table, he wheezed and glared at me in suspicion. He rummaged around in my bag and uttered an "ah ha!" Fucking hell! His flabby catcher's mitt emerged with a canister! Of shaving cream. I almost burst out laughing. He was busy chewing my ass out for not packing my shaving cream in a Federally Approved 1 quart ziplock bag. It was all I could do to not scream, "you fat fuck! You nearly gave me a fucking heart attack! I thought you had found the explosives!"
You can see how that would have been bad, right?
So after a few minutes of aerobic activity for a man who desperately needed it, Manthor the hogbeast made the world safe for democracy by confiscating my shaving cream. For good measure, my toothpaste was sacrificed on the alter of freedom too.
This is just an example of a bad time to be having thoughts.
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