Skip to main content

TNA from the TSA?

We live in a country where free speech is treasured above all, and yet as I write this,  I think there may be some back room conspiracy that's going to make my next flight hell.  I suppose it's possible. I suppose the asshat that sat in front of me from D.C. to New York with his seat leaned back just far enough that I couldn't use my laptop is working for the TSA is some capacity. I mean if the awards shows can have professional seat fillers, why not the airlines? "Hey...we need to make this flight look booked. Who do we have in DC? Bob? Great! Get him on the flight!"

I suppose it could be worse than having my knee in such an uncomfortable position that it's aching with 40 minutes left to go in the flight.

Admittedly, these are first world problems. Inconveniences really. But those things weren't actually the worst part of todays sojourn to the land of the Queens. What was the most annoying piece of today's travel actually happened in the good old Buckeye State.

I got 'pre-checked' by TSA to make sure I was in the right concourse I get it. No big deal. Understandable after recent events. I had tucked my shirt in for two reasons. 1. To keep my shorts up. 2. To avoid the awkward "Sir are you wearing a belt?" question.  I go through the scanner and they start to pat me down. Again, no big deal. The big guy was gentle. It was all good. Until I saw my outline on the scanner's monitor with an orange square around my belly.

"Sir, I'm going to need to pat down your stomach."

Are you fucking kidding me? My stomach? Dude...I get that I've put on weight, but there's no cache of munitions in there my friend. But it was a work trip and I needed to fly, so I rotated and proceeded to get my tummy patted.

I was resisting the urge to do the Pillsbury Dough Boy when his gloved hand ran the rim of my waist line. WHAT THE FUCK?  Dude...that's not patting down my stomach. That's seeing how loose my shorts are and you should at least offer me coffee or a scone first.

Of course my shorts are loose...my belt's off, dude.

I don't know what he was looking for. In my stomach or the belt line of my pants. I can only assume he was disappointed. Or maybe not.

Fuck. I don't know. It can't be an easy job. Especially when twats like me can fire off semi-sardonic posts about agents hoping to get lucky.

It was enough of a thing to make me think "Dude...just exactly what do you expect to find down there?"

I had to bite my tongue, but the first thought that came to mind was "Dude...WHOA! HEY! If you're looking for a dirty bomb, check the backside, because think that little pat down just made me shart a little bit."

But really, I don't think he would have thought it was as funny as I did.

And he's probably right.

There's really nothing funny about dirty bombs.

Or sharting.

Here's to you TSA guy.


Peace,
-A.T.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Marriage Material??

I had a friend call me today, fuming. I consider myself a good listener on most days. Considering that I was out of town on a work trip and doing absolutely nothing in my hotel room, my listening game was on-point.

She recounted the exchange that sent her off. I will spare you some of the more personal details, but the gist was, at one point, the dude-bro she was talking to flat out told her that she wasn’t marriage material.

Torn between wanting to be a supportive friend and being completely gobsmacked, I felt her frustration. No. That’s not quite right. I didn’t feel the same frustration she felt. I’m approaching what some consider middle age. I’m white. I’m primarily interested in women. Oh, and I have a penis. So...no, I can never truly feel the same frustration she was feeling. Or an anger that comes from the same place her anger came from. No matter how in touch I am witn my feminine side (whatever the fuck that actually means).

Instead, the frustration and anger I was feeling w…

Out of Sorts

Not sure what my deal is today. I got up this morning to go for a walk and it was spitting rain, but no biggie. My thriftstore Nikes were kind of hurting my feet, so that didn't help. But it felt good to go for the walk (other than the hurting feet). And it's all going well...and then I get into work and just turn into PMS-Man.  I don't know what my deal is. I just feel bitchy this morning and I'm not sure why. So..um. Yeah. That's all I got.

Post Con-Fusion

It's 5:40 AM on a Wednesday. I have been up for an hour. I have an outline for a work in progress that I intended to work on this morning. I was in the middle of a chapter that I started at lunch and had every intention of continuing this morning. But, much like me, it seems the characters wanted to sleep in today. They wanted to just hunker under the covers as the rain danced its hypnotic melody on my roof. The swoosh swoosh swoosh of the ceiling fan keeping time with the rest of the nocturnal orchestra.

So, I shifted gears. I am taking  a course on getting more words on the page. Something that I want to do need to do if I am to get all of these books that are floating around in my head out in to the world. It's not so much that I think the whole world will love and adore them, although I certainly hope that is the case. No, it's more the fact that it's getting crowded up there. I need to get these words on the page for my own sanity as much as anything else.

Sanity,…