Adventures in air travel...
Nov. 27th, 2006 08:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jack_babalonSo i've been standing here at the security check point for the last ten minutes without having moved a single inch. I'm shoeless, holding my jeans up with a single finger hooked through a belt loop and watching the other passengers sail right through the adjacent checkpoints like a scene out of Koyaanisqatsi. Behind me, in what i'm sure will be the plot to an upcoming Disney movie, are five very pissed off looking Scottsmen who are traveling with a little girl with large dark eyes that don't blink and pig tailed auburn hair. They form a kind of protective circle around her, like the personal guard of a emperor, their thick arms folded across their Celtic Football Club jersies impressively and each one taking turns to bend down and console her. She eats a five dollar ice cream cone with the apathetic ease of visiting royalty or one of the Children of the Damned. I smile and wave awkwardly at her. She in turn wiggles her finger at the biggest member of her Guard. Flat topped gray hair, a face artifically tanned and the veins popping out of the leather log he has for a neck, he kneels down, cocks his head to her ear and nods slowly as she whispers instructions to him behind a cupped hand. Finally, when she steps back, he straightens up at releases a whistle that a submarine could use to navigate the deepest waters followed by a loud bark:
"YOU, YEAH FOOKIN' KOJACK OVER THERE! I GOT A QUESTION FOR YERZ!"
I look around the length of the airport, hoping in vain to find some with shittier luck than me he could be talking to.
"YEAH THAT'S RIGHT YA KNOW I'M TALKIN' TO YEZ! NOW HOW 'BOUT TELLIN' US WHY THE 'WORLDS LEADING SUPER POWER' IS FAT, STUPID AND SCARED ALL THE TIME? YOU KEN WHAT I'M SAYIN'?"
"Ummmm..." I don't know what to say, the Guard are all eyeballing me hard, giving me the Evils so to speak. "... I'm sorry I don't 'Ken'... Sprachen der Jive, maybe? Polly vous Freedomnese?"
The Guard surge forward to kick the smart straight out of my ass. Suddenly the little girl speaks up:
"Stop!"
The Guard freeze in their tracks.
"He doesn't know. None of them do. Return to your posts." And the Guard step back, shaking their head in disgust at me and curling their lips into snarls.
Well don't blame me fellas. Blame the War on Terror (part 13 in an on going series of wars declared on vaguely defined concepts). In fact you might want to direct your questions to the fine agents of the TSA, who thanks to superior training and a keen eye, have managed to locate and isolate the latest threat to air travel security. Meet the new face of evil, destined to join the ranks of Osama Bin Laden and the guy who invented touch tone menus on America's Shit List: Grannie Turtle!
Grannie Turtle has on a red floral dress from back in the day when Bing Crosby got her panties wet, a pair of thick black glasses that give her Anime sized eyes and what appears to be either a hunchback or a rather clumsy attempt at smuggling one of her grandchildren through security.
Don't laugh. Grannie Turtle's packing serious heat!
"Ma'am i'm afraid you can't bring this on." says a sincere young agent with a childs face slapped on a linebackers body.
"Why?" she croaks through her leathered throat.
"You are only authorized to bring on no more than three ounces of liquids, gels or..."
"How many?" she interupts.
"...three ounces."
"Well how much is that?"
"Well umm... it's... it's three ounces."
"But I don't understand..."
"Ma'am i'm afraid this will have to be confiscated" and here our agent dramatically holds up what appears to be a bottle of Head & Shoulders Shampoo for all to see. Ah but only to the untrained eye dear reader. In fact this rather simple looking container could be anything ranging from a volatile form of liquid TNT to a highly corrosive acid that could send a plane crashing down faster than you can say 'Daedalus'.
"But why?"
"Because this container is over three ounces..."
"How much?"
A collective 'Fuck' is sighed by the dozen or so people behind me. Most of whom are abandoning ship now to take their chances standing behind the guy with a turban on reading a copy of 'Jihad Weekly' or the tweenager who's face has more metal in it than the last three Slayer CDs combined.
Why not? They'll be sitting on their flight while i'm still standing here eating my Thanksgiving dinner here at the security check point!
And i'd join them but my carry on luggage, my wallet, my shoes, my book and my belt are all somewhere in the belly of the X-Ray machine waiting to be shit out the conveyor belt for approval.
"Alright what's going on here?!?!?" A small, fat bulldog of a TSA agent wobbles over, her pinched up face showing obvious annoyance at having to commit this small act of excercise in the course of her job (and who says we Americans don't know the meaning of sacrifice anymore?) and she looks at Agent Big Boy then Grannie Turtle then Big Boy then Turtle then...
"This woman was attempting to bring this on!" the Agent shows his partner(?) the bottle of shampoo like he was the star of some court room drama - 'if you look at exhibit A you will clearly see that...'. Agent Bulldog takes the evidence. She turns it in her hand, she turns it over, she pops the lid, she puts the lid back on and says to Grannie Turtle.
"Ma'am i'm sorry but you're not allowed to bring on more than three ounces..."
"How much?" Turtle interupts.
No one says a word for the most horribly long five seconds of my life.
Finally Agent Bulldog opens her forefinger and thumb to a distance of two to three inches:
"This much ma'am."
Grannie Turtle leans in closer and inspects the width of the measurement. Adjusts her glasses and nods sagely to herself.
"Okay." she says just like that. Like I haven't been standing on line waiting for the Glasgow Fitba Society here to tear me a new one. Like I haven't been standing here watching a geriatric and a minimum wage security guard with a metal detector perform a fucking Abbott & Costello routine. Like I haven't been standing here for ten-fucking-minutes!!!!
The Bulldog wobbles back to wherever the fuck she came from. The Agent throws the bottle in some container and Grannie Turtle hobbles her hunchbacked ass to the next flight to Turdsville, USA.
It is only later, much later in fact, well after i've boarded my plane, taken my seat(31F - 'to your left sir'), stowed my carry on in the overhead luggage compartment, placed my one (and one only) personal bag under said seat, put my tray and chair fully in the upright position and finally when the Stewardess announces that: "...all personal communication devices must be placed in the off position" that it occurs to me the central flaw in this whole ordeal.
I lean over to the busty young Hindi woman reading a copy of Elle in the seat next to me (31G) and ask- "Y'know, how is it that we can't bring on shampoo or hairspray onboard, right? But a cellphone could send us all spiraling down into certain doom?"
She just smiles and shrugs without looking away from her magazine.
"Yeah, well... what're-ya-gonna-do?"
"YOU, YEAH FOOKIN' KOJACK OVER THERE! I GOT A QUESTION FOR YERZ!"
I look around the length of the airport, hoping in vain to find some with shittier luck than me he could be talking to.
"YEAH THAT'S RIGHT YA KNOW I'M TALKIN' TO YEZ! NOW HOW 'BOUT TELLIN' US WHY THE 'WORLDS LEADING SUPER POWER' IS FAT, STUPID AND SCARED ALL THE TIME? YOU KEN WHAT I'M SAYIN'?"
"Ummmm..." I don't know what to say, the Guard are all eyeballing me hard, giving me the Evils so to speak. "... I'm sorry I don't 'Ken'... Sprachen der Jive, maybe? Polly vous Freedomnese?"
The Guard surge forward to kick the smart straight out of my ass. Suddenly the little girl speaks up:
"Stop!"
The Guard freeze in their tracks.
"He doesn't know. None of them do. Return to your posts." And the Guard step back, shaking their head in disgust at me and curling their lips into snarls.
Well don't blame me fellas. Blame the War on Terror (part 13 in an on going series of wars declared on vaguely defined concepts). In fact you might want to direct your questions to the fine agents of the TSA, who thanks to superior training and a keen eye, have managed to locate and isolate the latest threat to air travel security. Meet the new face of evil, destined to join the ranks of Osama Bin Laden and the guy who invented touch tone menus on America's Shit List: Grannie Turtle!
Grannie Turtle has on a red floral dress from back in the day when Bing Crosby got her panties wet, a pair of thick black glasses that give her Anime sized eyes and what appears to be either a hunchback or a rather clumsy attempt at smuggling one of her grandchildren through security.
Don't laugh. Grannie Turtle's packing serious heat!
"Ma'am i'm afraid you can't bring this on." says a sincere young agent with a childs face slapped on a linebackers body.
"Why?" she croaks through her leathered throat.
"You are only authorized to bring on no more than three ounces of liquids, gels or..."
"How many?" she interupts.
"...three ounces."
"Well how much is that?"
"Well umm... it's... it's three ounces."
"But I don't understand..."
"Ma'am i'm afraid this will have to be confiscated" and here our agent dramatically holds up what appears to be a bottle of Head & Shoulders Shampoo for all to see. Ah but only to the untrained eye dear reader. In fact this rather simple looking container could be anything ranging from a volatile form of liquid TNT to a highly corrosive acid that could send a plane crashing down faster than you can say 'Daedalus'.
"But why?"
"Because this container is over three ounces..."
"How much?"
A collective 'Fuck' is sighed by the dozen or so people behind me. Most of whom are abandoning ship now to take their chances standing behind the guy with a turban on reading a copy of 'Jihad Weekly' or the tweenager who's face has more metal in it than the last three Slayer CDs combined.
Why not? They'll be sitting on their flight while i'm still standing here eating my Thanksgiving dinner here at the security check point!
And i'd join them but my carry on luggage, my wallet, my shoes, my book and my belt are all somewhere in the belly of the X-Ray machine waiting to be shit out the conveyor belt for approval.
"Alright what's going on here?!?!?" A small, fat bulldog of a TSA agent wobbles over, her pinched up face showing obvious annoyance at having to commit this small act of excercise in the course of her job (and who says we Americans don't know the meaning of sacrifice anymore?) and she looks at Agent Big Boy then Grannie Turtle then Big Boy then Turtle then...
"This woman was attempting to bring this on!" the Agent shows his partner(?) the bottle of shampoo like he was the star of some court room drama - 'if you look at exhibit A you will clearly see that...'. Agent Bulldog takes the evidence. She turns it in her hand, she turns it over, she pops the lid, she puts the lid back on and says to Grannie Turtle.
"Ma'am i'm sorry but you're not allowed to bring on more than three ounces..."
"How much?" Turtle interupts.
No one says a word for the most horribly long five seconds of my life.
Finally Agent Bulldog opens her forefinger and thumb to a distance of two to three inches:
"This much ma'am."
Grannie Turtle leans in closer and inspects the width of the measurement. Adjusts her glasses and nods sagely to herself.
"Okay." she says just like that. Like I haven't been standing on line waiting for the Glasgow Fitba Society here to tear me a new one. Like I haven't been standing here watching a geriatric and a minimum wage security guard with a metal detector perform a fucking Abbott & Costello routine. Like I haven't been standing here for ten-fucking-minutes!!!!
The Bulldog wobbles back to wherever the fuck she came from. The Agent throws the bottle in some container and Grannie Turtle hobbles her hunchbacked ass to the next flight to Turdsville, USA.
It is only later, much later in fact, well after i've boarded my plane, taken my seat(31F - 'to your left sir'), stowed my carry on in the overhead luggage compartment, placed my one (and one only) personal bag under said seat, put my tray and chair fully in the upright position and finally when the Stewardess announces that: "...all personal communication devices must be placed in the off position" that it occurs to me the central flaw in this whole ordeal.
I lean over to the busty young Hindi woman reading a copy of Elle in the seat next to me (31G) and ask- "Y'know, how is it that we can't bring on shampoo or hairspray onboard, right? But a cellphone could send us all spiraling down into certain doom?"
She just smiles and shrugs without looking away from her magazine.
"Yeah, well... what're-ya-gonna-do?"