I told y'all a month ago I was going to be flying west to east and that I would update you on TSA security at the airport. So, I get to the airport and I'm sweating bullets because I've got marijuana in my luggage that my boat mechanic had given me the day prior to my flight.
(Read the side story to this post, look for the picture of Carter Oosterhouse)
So, anyway... I've got marijuana in my luggage and I think to myself...well, I took the mechanic's advice and I've wrapped those fat buds in a pill bottle and then wrapped it inside of twenty or thirty Zip-Lock plastic bags to prevent the airport security narcotics dogs from sniffing my merch. It's not that I wouldn't be able to talk my way out of being caught with it, I'm so good at bullshit that it would be easy.
Plus, in the back of my mind I'm thinking of a recent surgery I had, some 90 odd pain pills and various additional prescrips that I am also carrying with me: 1. Dilaudid (Morphine) 2. Oxycodone (For fun) 3. Hydrocodone (Because, why not?) 4. Flexeril (Just in case) 5. Trazodone (Completes my "party mix")
... and various and other sundry of items including pills that honestly? I can't remember what they are... but some include things for stretched limbs, sore limbs, aching limbs, limbs, muscle aches, muscle throbs, muscle tears, sprains, pulls, itches and hemorrhoids.
I also carry with me an exotic bag filled with creams and ointments... arm itch, jock itch, butt itch, ball itch, foot itch, leg itch... if it itches, I've got the cream for it. And not the wimpy over-the-counter itch stuff, either. I've got the full prescription-strength anti itch cream from at least one of my doctors.
Let's see... there's my 1. regular doctor 2. doctor in Savannah doctor 3. dermatologist in California doctor 4. three different dermatologist doctors in Savannah, doctors 5. My eye doctor and just in case... 6. A foot doctor.
...Oh, and some doctor I know who really isn't a doctor, but likes to go by that title. He's got "the best", when you can get hold of him.
So, I figure I'm covered in the doctor department, oh, plus if you count the surgeon I see in Savannah, whenever I'm out of morphine (once or twice a month)... that makes a nice assortment of doctors. Really nice if you count the surgeon's two assistents, one of which is named, "Lyle", who can also dispense, "medication".
Okay, so back to the pot which, really? It's not really that much on my mind anymore, because I am more worried about the outfit I have on.
Do black, gray and white plaid shorts really match a mustard colored pull-over with long sleeves and a T-shirt?
Should I really have worn flip flops with white socks? Or, should I have worn my hiking boots with sensible hiking socks? Oh, fuck it. I'm over 50, who gives a shit what I look like...I've got 2 dogs that I am traveling with and I'll be damned if I am going to pay Delta another $200 to fly my five pound dogs under their seats! I simply must get through security so that I can sneak my dogs onto the airplane.
Thank god they don't bark because if they did, I'd have to kill one of them and even though I am flying first class, there still isn't a lot of room on those planes. They simply never give you enough room to move around.
Besides, I'm having a really good hair day and we got a semi-free ride to the airport which saved me a bundle in taxi fares in Orange County... which really is: Newport Beach, California where the taxi's charge ten bucks when you hail them. That doesn't even include the price of the ride...which is usually somewhere around eighty bucks or more. I know! Total rip off.
And, if you have to have the taxi driver wait for you when you run into a liquor store, for example, the bill can really skyrocket.
Besides, I'm flying first class, I'm sweet, cute, adorable and can talk the stewardess into anything once I really get going with him or her, whichever the case may be. (I look them in the eye when I talk, I smile a lot and flash my pretty teeth and make cute faces).
Oh, and we did get a guy. A really cute Indian guy - steward. Or airline assistant or whatever the correct technical name is for people who sling cocktails and peanuts on airplanes. I would say they should wear tags that say: "Pretzel & Peanut slinger" but you know how touchy those types can be. And, our peanut slinger was not only an Indian, he was dressed immaculately. He had this pretty red hankie sticking out of his crisp blue jacket and he had little gold pins in his lapel. I'm not postive but I think he was wearing collar-stays and I definitely saw a glint of a cufflink once or twice. Of course, nobody could understand a word he said on the intercom, or in person, but he had this dashing smile, jet black hair and dark skin... his teeth were really white when she, I mean, he, flashed them at you.
"Goot dey peeples of America, velcum tu Delta Airlines vare ve vish to make your aquaintance and assist you viff all of your flyink neats, my name is Rashi Ashidiadan, please rink me if yu neat service".
So, I get to security and by this time, I'm so frazzled having to "self check-in" that I could scream. I mean, there's a black woman at the desk and she's telling me, ME! that I have to insert my credit card and follow the steps on the keypad. She didn't even glance up from her readers to say hi. Barely a nod, more of an exasperation.
So, I said, "Listen Honey, I'm so nervous and I can't follow those damned pin pad instructions because I am 50 and don't have my readers on, couldja help a poor guy out a bit? I mean, really... I'm liable to screw up and get de-planed or something while they ship my luggage to Timbuktu and I've got some important power doo-hickies for my computer, cell phone and I swear if I lose them it's going to cost me an absolute fortune at Best Buy...
Well, at that, she huffed and turned around while 2 other ticket agents pretended to be busy and when I turned to each of them, they flitted off like I was going to ask them to change the tire on my truck or something!
I swear. So, the dang machine prints out my six tickets in copy for each of my 3 legs and I do a quick check.. yep! First class seats. Golly dang! I wonder what kind of champagne they'll be serving and whether the roast beef will be carved hot, or served already sliced on a plate? I'll have to remember to ask for a side of horse-raddish. I simply love horse-raddish with my roast beef & mashed potatoes. I hope they don't serve those damned roasted potatoes that have been heated, cooled and then reheated. They're so dry that I can barely choke down one or two before I have to flush with champagne. You could actually choke to death on re-heated airline potatoes.
And then, I'm standing there looking at this black woman and I say, Pardon me, do I set this other, big heavy bag here on this side of your station on this little silver scale thingy? Or do I simply hand it to you? I'll tell you I'm just so flustered that...
And she says, in a loud voice, get this: YOU'LL HAVE TO WAIT YOUR TURN.
I'm like? Um, hello, bee-yotch? I'm the only one standing here and you really don't seem to be doing much except adjusting the fat in your groin, ass and thighs.... can't you just slip that little print out sticky-thingy on my luggage so I can toodle away? I simply must get through security and get myself an Egg McMuffin TM before the first flight takes off...so I won't be too full when they wheel the roast beef down the aisle...
So, she makes me wait like 3 whole minutes and then she glances over at me like: okay, what did you want again? because she was real busy clicking her big fat red nails on her keyboard while trying to juggle her thighs and keep them off of each other... and so she does-
... real sweetly she bends over, slightly, and puts the sticky thing on my bag and then asks one of the male agents to throw it into the magic hole where your luggage disappears until it reappears out of another hole in the baggage claim area of your destination, if you're lucky.
So I looked at her and said: That was real kind of you, you have a nice day now, you hear? And she nods at me as if to say: get the *uck out of here, I'm busy. So I toodle off while telling Tony, my partner, that she never did ask to see driver's licenses.
Uh uh. Not once. She never asked to see any I.D. I could have been Attila The Hun flying that day for all she cared.
So, we get to security and I'm feeling a little more confident until the asshole who does check our driver's license against our boarding passes says, "I see you're going to Savannah through Atlanta" and then he kind of chuckles a bit and says, "you do know those airports are closed due to snow storms, don't you? I hope you'll enjoy your stay in the:
A T L A N T A A I R P O R T
... and I swear, just for a brief second I'm envisioning me, ME, sleeping on the Atlanta Airport's concrete floors in shorts & flip flops while a blizzard rages around us. And then, just then, I had a vision that the damned airport will probably have it's air conditioning turned on high, blasting col air, full blast.
I am going to freeze to death and I don't even have a blanket. And how do those people in airports sleep if they forget to bring a pillow?
Well, I figure, thank God I'll have my marijuana in the aiport to keep me warm. And just then I start wondering whether they have a smoking section in the airport when security says:
Sir! Take off everything you have on, your sweater, your shoes, your socks, your sunglasses, and empty the contents of your bags into these little trays here... keep your ring on...carry your dogs through with your person... and of course by this time, all the female security agents are going GOO GOO GA GA over my little dogs and they're giggling and calling out to one another and I feel that I am a spectacle, I should be on-stage having coins tossed at me...
...and I'm saying, "Oh, this one is Zoey, and this one is Haley and what's that dear? Why is one clipped short and the other has long hair? Oh well...her fur is so thick that it gets matted if I don't keep her clipped and the other one...
And then the security man says: okay, step through...there's a line forming....What's that? You have a titanium shoulder? Never mind that, just step slowly through the thingy here... and poof!
Not a sound. No beep. No alarms blaring through the airports and I am smiling while showing off my dogs and asking the attendent why my titanium shoulder didn't set off any alarms and he says,
"You register for very little metal"... while my luggage with the two big fat buds wrapped in a pill bottle and encased in 34 to 48 Zip-Lock bags (really strong fragrance... nearly overwhelming) goes neatly through the scanner and rolls gently off the rollers and into my arms.
It's like a god-send.
By this time, I am a nervous wreck and I swear I could profile for Osama Bin Laden himself... and I slip on my flip flops, mustard colored pull over (zip up with a leather zip thingy) fluff my hair back a bit, tuck my fat into my underpants and straighten my shorts, pull my t-shirt down and by now I am thinking: Thank Jesus himself! I'm through airport security!
And all of you were worried about those damned Transportation Security Administration screening films that might show your boobs or woo-hoos?
Y'all are nothing but a bunch of wimps. Oh, and by the way, that is my SCHWANG in the security magnetic resonance imaging film.