“Family Friendly.” One of the airport security lines was labeled this in large cheerful letters. Which got me wondering what that said about the other lines.
Like the one I was in.
I know it probably was supposed to mean that they’re required by law to yell at you 50% less when it takes you 20 minutes to remove small-person shoes, extract sticky items, and transform giant robot baby strollers into three-inch-tall Matchbox cars so you can put it all back again six feet on the other side.
But as I stood in what I could only assume was the Family Abrasive Line, I kept waiting for Denis Leary to show up in a security guard uniform, to motion me forward:
“Get your @$ over here, lady. Take your f*#&ing shoes off, fer cryin’ out loud, and put ‘em on the f*#&ing conveyor belt… What’s this—Liquids? Not in a quart size bag?
"Lady, can you f*#&ing read the f*#&ing sign there? What’s it say? Read it back to me. ‘NO f*#&ing liquids more than three ounces and they gotta be in a quart size Ziploc bag.‘
"And you, you got, like, more fluids than Niagara f*#&ing Falls here. Jesus Christ, you people piss me off!”
I think the metal detector operator would be Gordon Ramsay. You just know that guy would enjoy wanding the uncooperative.
Of course, every time I travel, there are some aspects of the journey I enjoy a lot, and I wish I could incorporate them into my daily life. My favorite is the airport moving walkways. There’s absolutely nothing like flying past normal Non-Walkway Mortals, without even breaking a sweat.
It’s as close as I’ll ever get to being the Bionic Woman, and it’s all I can do to keep from going into a slow motion jog and making “Ehh-ehh-ehh-ehh-ehh, chh-chh-chh-chh-chh” noises.
I would like to have this capability in the supermarket. I believe I could do some good “ehh-ehh, chh-chh” there and be in-and-out in half the time.
Or a little “ehh-ehh chh-chh” at the mall and I wouldn’t be trapped behind large, slow-moving ladies with off-road baby carriages.
Some “ehh” and “chh” at lunch hour, and I could burn off all my calories before I ate them.
Maybe just “chh” at the flea markets. Wouldn’t want to miss anything because of my blinding speed.
What I don’t care for are those airport toilets with minds of their own. Ever since they’ve gained independence and a self-determined lifestyle, I have been prematurely flushed upon—the sanitary ramifications of which I do not want to contemplate.
I don’t know what their problem is... Do the toilets suffer from job performance anxiety and get a little overanxious about missing their cues?
Are the sensor manufacturers compensated per flush?
Or do the companies that make them also manufacture novelty items like joy-buzzers and trick birthday candles? Is there some Integrated Practical Joker motherboard you need to dismantle first for non-comedy club use?…
Because they’re always just a little more impatient than my nether-regions and I appreciate.
Well, I'm sorry to cut this short today, but I'd better go. My mavericky hotel maid and I are playing a game of Magic Towels...
Signs all over the room tell us how to help conserve water by reusing towels. I try. I hang them back on the rack with the best of intentions of saving the planet through two fewer daily squares of terry cloth.
I mean, I figure, maids probably see the whole product line of bodily fluids and bad manners (also the occasional in-room murder), so I try to make their lives a little easier by being a helpful guest.
But the maid-- she's having none of that. Not only were my used towels gone, there are now even more fresh towels in my room than before.
By tomorrow I'll be able to start my own linens store. I'm excited.
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