We’re back from our voyage to San Francisco and the Big Island of Hawaii and almost recovered from 17 hours of flying (22 hours on the clock). It was a great trip and I’m glad we did it….although it started kinda rough when Yours Truly managed to set off the metal detectors and had himself patted down.
Well, YOU do. Don’t you? What there is of it, anyway.
This is hardly my first time through security, and I prepare in advance: no change in my pockets; off with the metal bracelets, deposit the phone, money clip, wallet, and box cutters in the bucket; strip off the coat and shoes. That always works.
Not this time. The alarm goes off. He sends me through again. The alarm goes off again. He grills me as to what I’m carrying (nothing). He eliminates the possibility that my toe rings (21 total) are responsible. I show him my Dagoid horn – that’s a little pepper-shaped chunk of gold around my neck that hangs from a chain to my breastbone, not my mighty shlong – and gold waist chain, but he says that’s not it either. When it happens the third time, it’s automatic pat-down time.
I’m directed to an area within the secure zone. “Would you like to have this performed in private?” he asks.
Hell, no. I want to do this on stage! Lights, music! Opening acts with dancing girls!
“Do you have any medical conditions or devices I should be aware of before we begin?”
Well, I’m ticklish as all hell. And I tend to fart when I’m tickled. You have a nose plug to match your latex gloves?
Not the anticipated response, I guess, but he gets to work. He spreads my hands and carefully checks from cuff to shoulder. Then he gets off a good grope or two around my chest and stomach area, then down the back. I giggle. He tenses.
Inhale, Al! Inhale!
We get to the good part. You know, the junk. The package. The family jewels. Should I tell him I’m hanging left today? Nah. Let the pro do his job. Oooh, Mary. Down to the kneeees.
Can I turn a little so my wife can watch? I’d like her to see your technique.
“Sir, I appreciate your cooperation, but I’m trying to be serious here,” he says, before he starts giggling.
Just about everybody lined up for security is keeping an eye on us. They figure I’m a dangerous AIDS-infected suicidal terrorist too un-bright not to get caught smuggling explosives in his unwiped asshole. I debate picking my nose, faking an epileptic fit, or performing my unbelievably convincing Tourette Syndrome symphony of quacking like a duck and screaming Fuck You like Joe Cocker. Fifty feet away, Guido unerringly intuits my thoughts and projects her Wouldn’t Mind Being a Widow beam between my eyes. They teach them that in Wife School, you know.
He gets to my bare feet and freezes. “Can you even wear shoes with all those rings?” he asks.
Depends on the shoes. I have to remove a few when I wear my Frankenstein heels.
Well, that nails it. We’re done. He thanks me for my cooperation and apologizes for the inconvenience. I tell him I appreciate his professionalism and that we’ll be back in 2 weeks: does he want to get together?
We never discover what triggered the alarm. My best guess is it’s my ass bling – the 3 gold guides attached to my prostate gland to aim the cancer-killing radiation beams. But in subsequent travels, it never happens again. Just one of those things.
I tell Guido that I hope the rest of this trip is as interesting as the beginning. For some reason, that’s the wrong thing to say. I just don’t understand women.