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"Respect my Authori-tay"

spingirl | 28 March, 2006 16:30

Oh, the joys of dealing with the Homeland Security's TSA. I will start this post by saying, quite clearly, the following: I don't feel any more safer flying today than I did before 9/11 happened and the TSA took over security. I don't think that stationing a bunch of poorly trained, yet power-hungry people at metal detectors does much to increase my security, or that of my fellow flying passengers. Combine this belief with an innate streak of distrust for most forms of government authority, and you end up with my sick sense of humor about the whole "screening" process. Most of the time, I manage to keep my comments to myself, but I was in a wacky mood yesterday, and well, read on.

Scott and I flew to Houston over the weekend and were making the return trip yesterday, starting out in Houston's Hobby Airport. Apparently, Hobby Airport is one of those airports, you know, the kind that makes you take your shoes off so that they can be scanned. *insert eyeroll here* Maybe it's just me, but I would feel more safe if TSA could catch more overtly dangerous things, like the pepper spray and matches that I once accidentally left in my rather small purse, rather than spending their time scanning my Reeboks. But anyway, back to the shoes. Usually, I keep my tennis shoes on, in spite of being "cautioned" that not "volunteering" to having my shoes scanned could lead to further screening. In other words, when given the choice between: a) mindlessly following and submitting to pointless governmental directives that only serve to increase governmental control over every facet of one's life; or b) bucking the system for the sake of questioning authority, even if it leads to more hassle, I will generally choose b.

Sometimes, it leads to interesting results.


So, Scott and I are putting all of our stuff in the plastic bins to put them through the scanning machines when one of the TSA people "suggests" we take off our shoes in order to "avoid" further screening. Translation: do what we say without question or we'll make trouble for you. For once, I decide, what the hell? I'll comply. So, I take off my shoes and send them through. I am beckoned through the metal detector by a TSA "guard" and as I walk through in my somewhat sweaty, sock-covered feet, I think about how many other sweaty, stinky, dirty feet must walk across that same stretch of plastic every day. I think about all the nasty germs that are probably wallowing on the walking surface, germs that could cause any number of tasty foot infections. And I proceed to open my mouth.

"How often is this plastic strip cleaned?"

Uh-oh. Ms. TSA guard seems a little pissed that I would even think about questioning the serious nature of what she does, much less say such things out loud. No surprise, then, as to her response.

"Need a full female assist. No alarm."

*sigh* She might as well have said, "You will respect my authori-tay!"

So, not only do I not find out about the cleaning procedures for the plastic mat of grungy sockitude, but I must walk to a small, window-enclosed area in my socks. "More germs, more fungus," I think to myself. I idly wonder if TSA will pay for my Tinactin if I get athlete's foot.

I am then treated to a full body massage, courtesy of the TSA. By this time, Scott, probably due to his mere association with such a subversive person as myself, is also being treated to a full body massage. But that's not the end of it. Another TSA guard comes over and collects my things, including my little paper bag with a lemon poppy-seed muffin in it, in order to test for explosives. I think to myself that it was a good thing I did not eat the poppy-seed muffin BEFORE going through security, because then I might have tested positive for opium, and who KNOWS what that might have led to. While the TSA man tests my poppy-seed muffin for explosives, I am finally given my shoes back, but, sadly, no answers as to the cleaning procedures for the floor. Eventually, my muffin passes muster, and it, along with my other things, are returned to me. I inspect my muffin for signs of tasting and we are sent on our merry little way.

So, breathe easier tonight, World. The United States TSA is doing its job well. That is if doing its job means spreading foot fungus and checking poppy-seed muffins for explosives. Oh, and punishing smart asses who would even consider to question their authori-tay.

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