Rehash bash

I’m doing a rehash about an experience after my daughter’s wedding day.  The sarcasm is so great in this episode of US vs. TSA that it’s well worth remembering.

It seems that somewhere in the 2600 posts I written there has to be a post about this, but I can’t find it.  If I had, I would’ve reblogged.

It was 2011…or 12…I think…

My daughter was getting married!  

It was the almost the best wedding you could imagine:  A lovely bride, all her great friends hovering around, laughter, and a beautiful wedding at 6:00pm.

I didn’t arrive at my motel room until 11:00pm and had to get up at 4:00am the next day to catch a 6:00am flight. Unfortunately, I’d left my shoes in my daughter’s hotel suite and was relegated to the only thing I had left to wear:  A pair of 75 cent flip-flops.

Flip-flops with optional cat accessory

Did I mention the 3 planes I’d have to take that would arrive 9 hours later into an airport that was an hour away from my house?

That’s what happens when you can only afford the leftovers. 

Think of it this way:  If air fare were food, 1st class would be a croissant and my flights would have been Dollar General dog food.

But this particular saga begins at the worst TSA portal in existence; the one in Oklahoma City.  Every single time I have had to go through the OKC TSA line, the agent looks at my dark glasses and my hat.  Then he looks at the note from my doctor that says, basically, DON’T ASK HER TO TAKE OFF HER GLASSES!!

And...Not once have I been in the OKC TSA line and had the rubber-stamp guy (who was looking at me, my note, and my glasses) say, “Okie Dokie you can go on through.”

Noooooo…almost word for word they say, “Take off your glasses.”

I say some variation of, “No. Did you read the note from my doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Call your supervisor over.”

The supervisor looks at the note, looks at the TSA agent as if to say, What’s your problem  — this is a doctor’s note for God’s sake, and has to tell the wanna-be dictator to give my note and passport back.

Normally (if there is such a thing as a normal TSA encounter) I refuse to go through the radiation monster that can see me naked.  This ends one of two ways:  (1) I walk through the metal detector, (2) I get searched.

Once during the many times I had to fly out of Oklahoma City, I said, “I don’t like to be touched.”  I was searched twice, especially under the breasts and between the legs.

But the day after my daughters wedding, OKC TSA had a special kind of stupid in mind.

This isn’t me, but close enough to get the idea that as threats go I’m on the shelf next to the memory foam.

I was chosen for a “random” search, as was the man in front of me, right after our carry on’s were scanned. Our carry on’s were then carried off and we were taken to an open area between two TSA lines. It was a lot like being on a stage.  We waited to find out what the random search was all about…and waited.

While we were being stared at by people who wanted to be anyone but us, as they passed through the portal of TSA insanity and headed for their flights,  a woman TSA agent from the other line picked someone else for a search.

The new guy was sweating, so I looked at him and said something like, “Come and join the party, we’re expecting hors d’oeuvres any time now.”

For some reason, that didn’t seem to make him feel any better.

The 2 female TSA agents began to shout at each other, and the new man on stage began to sweat harder.  Their conversation went something like this:

“I chose the random male!”

“No, I chose the random male! Put your’s back.”

All I remember about it was this:

• It looked like I was about to witness an epic cat fight.
• A male supervisor had to break them apart, and he wasn’t happy.

I turned to the male searchee the two women were fighting about and said, in my usual sarcastic way, “Gee, I feel so safe.”

He smiled nervously but never said a word.  When the supervisor told Mr. Sweaty that he could go, they were sorry for the inconvenience and he wasn’t needed, he ran away like a scared mouse.

Once the search began, the guy next to me was led over by the supervisor to our luggage, and I followed the female. 

She asked what they were searching, and the supervisor said, “Shoes.”

 I pointed to my shoes and said, “That won’t take much time.”

The male TSA agent snickered. The female was NOT amused. 

And I still made it to the plane.