Irradiated by Stingray
Yesterday involved taking LabRat to the airport so she could go look after her mother for a bit. I’ve been opposed to her flying, but at the end of the day it’s her call, and I can see the reasons that led to her decision even if I wouldn’t have reached the same conclusion myself.
Expecting the highest professionalism the TSA is capable of, I opted to come in and watch her clear security to make sure they didn’t discover that my Kindle was suddenly on the banned objects list, or some similar effort to make the skies safer. With a mid-week mid-afternoon flight, the lines weren’t too bad, so I picked a vantage spot where I could see the goons and watch with quiet anger the violation of my wife near the entrance point to the maze-like line path.
She proceeds along. Everything seems to be going as smoothly as it could, and I didn’t even try to kick Tom Parsons’s kids when they got into line, simply stood waiting for the “They’re not banning anything” wave or the more likely “Here, take this home for me” walk. About ten minutes in, as she’s nearing the look-at-my-tits machine, a blue-gloved shaved-headed squirt, young enough I doubt both balls had dropped yet (or really, ever will) began striding at me With Purpose. Posted a day after the fact in order to avoid having this simply turn into a Carlin-esque litany of compound curses, dialog is slightly paraphrased, but accurate enough for government work.
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to either enter the line for processing to board your flight, or to leave. You cannot loiter observing a security checkpoint.”
“I’m waiting on my wife to get through with her stuff intact.”
“I’m sorry sir you will have to either enter the line for processing or leave immediately.”
At this point, I saw LabRat raise her arms to make sure the highly professional security apparatus had a clear view of her crotch.
“And as soon as you fucking little thieving perverts decide whether or not something shiny in my wife’s carry-on is banned all of a sudden or not, I’ll be on my way. Now either get a real cop and charge me with something or go fuck yourself you petty little shit.”
He turned an interesting shade of purple, and scampered (no, really. Totally different walk than the one on his way up to me. Kinda funny, really.) off, presumably to find help in either charging me with contempt of Stasi thug or someone a little better than half my size to help him pig-pile me. LabRat waved back that apparently none of the stuff in her bag was cool enough for them to want to steal this week, so away I walked.
I probably could’ve handled that better.