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So we were feeling oh so special with our
‘S’ tickets because the ticket guy escorted us to the
really, really big terror check machine. They put your luggage
in and you never see it again. Your luggage is sent to Morocco
where your undies are sold to the highest haggler.
I decided not to take the vibrator.
Our luggage passed the biz quiz and then
we had to stand in line and wait for the chance to remove our
shoes. Don’t you just love taking your shoes off at the
airport? You can thank that dumbshit terrorist who tried to blow
a plane up by lighting his shoes. I suppose it could have been
worse. It could have been a woman with explosive fake titties.
Uh, oh…did I just give someone an idea? We’re feeling ever so comfy in our socks while waiting to go through the second terrorist detector
when the ‘'patter downer' calls us to walk through. Now, to look at this ‘patter downer’ you might think, ‘that’s a guy. Yeah, um, right, a guy.’ And you say to the person with you, ‘That’s a guy, right. Yeah. Do you see any boobs?’ And the person with you says, ‘Um, maybe, hmmm.’
You have to know that unless the airport is so sadistic as to wish upon itself a bajillion lawsuits, you are going to have women patting down women and men patting down men. Ergo (see how literate I can be) one must come to the conclusion that this is, in fact, a woman. And I say, ‘We’re getting patted down by a dyke!’ Ya gotta love that. She was very official in her touching of our ‘areas’ with the back of the hand, as if that’s supposed to somehow make it less weird.
That wasn’t so bad but I hate when they go through your stuff.
We get checked out by the dyke and then we're on the plane to Oakland sitting in front of a dyke couple. Hey...I told you it was lesbionic. |