Turd Sandwich Association (TSA)

I only flew once prior to 9/11. I was nine years old and have no recollection of that flight whatsoever. But from what I’ve read and seen in old movies, airports used to be way more relaxed than they are now. Nowadays, you can’t run wildly through the terminal like the McCallister ( minus Kevin of course) family. Those shenanigans would get you detained in a heartbeat. 

It’s crazy to think that there was once a time when you could walk right onto an airplane without removing your shoes, belt, watch, and dignity. When security did their jobs quickly and efficiently, and the process wasn’t unnecessarily stressful. A time when calling things the “bomb” didn’t freak people out and getting to the airport two hours early was only something you did if you worked on the plane. 

Last summer we flew to Orlando. It was our first plane ride as a family of four— Disneyworld! A trip that was sure to be draining, both mentally, and financially. 

I began loosening my belt as we approached the security line. I knew the drill. I’ve done this before. I had not, however, done this before, with children. We managed to make it through the turnstile and as we began corralling through the roped off barriers, I noticed TSA agents stationed every ten feet along the way, loudly shouting at us to, move along!  As if that wasn’t the obvious intended route.

 ‘Oh, you mean follow the crowd through the clearly defined path? How would we ever have figured that out on our own?’

And they say it with this smug authoritativeness completely void of human decency, which only serves to highlight their uselessness to society. Why do these people exist? We already have stanchions with retractable belts to guide us through the maze. I could do without these dipshits every ten feet stating the obvious. It seems to me like each airport could operate just fine with half the amount of agents at security. I say this confidently because at least half of them do absolutely nothing.

As we got closer to the screening Simon began throwing a tantrum. While Becca consoled him, Sophie decided that the burden of carrying her backpack was too much for her shoulders to bear. So, now, I was responsible for both carry-on suitcases, a backpack, a carry-on bag, and a stroller. I walked up to the conveyor belt fumbling our bags while simultaneously trying to empty my pockets and take off my shoes. 

“There’s no way this ends well,” I muttered to myself as I dropped my cell phone and my boarding pass while trying to load one of the suitcases on the conveyor belt. I was in over my head. Like Michael J Fox trying to juggle machetes, I was destined to fail and I’m surprised I didn’t injure myself in the process. 

I managed to get both suitcases on the belt, and was in the process of loading our electronics in a separate bin when I noticed another TSA agent staring at me as if I was wasting his time. I was clearly having issues and could’ve used some assistance, but instead of helping me load up any of the bags, you wanna know what this dumb asshole did? He looked at me with his fat, stupid face and said, “Sir, please place all your bags on the belt and push them through.”

I’m working on it fuckface!

My brain almost exploded. What was this guy’s problem. I wonder what he would do if he was a lifeguard and someone in the pool was drowning. Would he jump in and save them? Would he throw them a buoy? Or would he remain seated and curtly remind them to swim. “Sir, I’m going to need you to stop splashing around and swim already!” 

All I had to do at this point was fold up the stroller and place it on the belt. Folding a stroller is an easy thing to do, unless you need to do it in a hurry, then suddenly it’s as difficult as solving a Rubik’s cube while riding a roller-coaster. “Sir, please go through the scanner,” the TSA said in a rather dickish tone. 

I took two steps to the left to get in line for the body-scan machine, when the same TSA agent yelled at me again, “Sir, you need to push your bags all the way through the belt!” 

Look dude. Either wait for me to push all by bags through and then I’ll get in line. Or push my bags through for me. I can’t do both things at once.  Meanwhile, I can’t help but notice that you’re doing zero things. And aren’t you’re on the clock? I mean, shouldn’t you be doing something? Anything? 

Now I have no idea what this guy’s official job title was, but I can’t imagine what he tells people he does. He probably brags about saving people’s lives and thwarting terrorist attacks by seizing tubes of nail polish and small bottles of water. The people at road construction sites that hold the STOP/SLOW sign work harder than these jack-wagons. Where do they get their confidence from? How can these people who do, literally nothing, behave so pompously, as if they’re vital, important members of society. “Move along!” They arrogantly shout, oblivious of their insignificance. Delusions of grandeur. These morons make Brendan Dassey look like Neal Degrasse Tyson, but in their minds, they’re Captain fucking Planet. 

In haste, I entered the body-scan machine before completely emptying my pockets. “What’s that in your right pocket?” A different TSA inquired. 

At that point I realized what I had done. In my pocket was a tube of Zipfizz. If you’re not familiar with Zipfizz, it’s an energy supplement that you mix with water. It’s a powder. I brought a powdery substance with me. I brought a powdery substance with me through airport security. I was fucked. 

My heart sank through my stomach. This was a mistake that would’ve been easily explainable to a rational human being. But that’s rarely the case in airports. I was momentarily detained while the agent ran a red wand over my hands and tested the tube of powder for combustible/flammable components. I mentally prepared myself for a prolonged detention filled with vigorous full-cavity examinations. The cost of the airfare already had me feeling taken advantage of, but this was going to be the rectal equivalent of spending $300 for zero leg room. “Sir, you’re good to go,” The Agent said in a condescending tone. 

I let out a huge sigh of relief. I had survived the TSA.

It was over. I was free. Sure, I lost a few thousand brain cells in the process, but you always have to expect casualties when dealing with the Turd Sandwich Association (TSA). The only thing that they can do to you after you pass security, is subject you to a completely unnecessary, “random bag check”

A random bag check essentially means, that they’ll catch you in line right before you enter the plane, open up one of your bags and fuck up all your neatly folded clothes for no reason. Which they did, by the way. But hey, if wrinkling up all my shirts, somehow equates to a safer flight, then I’m glad to make the sacrifice. Thanks for keeping me safe, TSA.