Thousands Standing Around. (REDUX)

6.4.2018  (first posted this week 2005)

I'm jetting outta town to see Phil for his birthday and when I'm fixin' to leave work I notice the traffic is a goddamn mess. I called and then begged my grrrrl to meet me on this side of town so I didn't have to go through the bad traffic to get her and come back again, as she was gonna drop me at the airport. She agreed, and when she showed up, we got into the Jeep and waded into the jam. What a pigfuck! EVERY intersection approaching the bridge was jammed such that one or two cars would get halfway through per light. These cars would then block the oncoming lanes. No one let anyone in. Nowhere were the SF Traffic pigs. It was sooooo fun.

However, our plan to have her meet me as close to the bridge as possible paid off and within a mere half-hour we went the 200-or-so feet down the street to the ramp and when we got onto the bridge, curiously traffic was moving rather well. So well, in fact, that I felt confident that I had time enough to stop at home and get my Southwest Airlines drink tickets.

I ran in and got the drink tix and as an afterthought, I grabbed a wondrous snack that I felt I would need because of SWA's peanuts-only food policy. I snagged a Deli-style, pepperoni-flavored Slim Jim that I bought at the next-door liquor store a week or so before. I was looking forward to eating it with a drink-ticket-bought Miller Light on the plane. It never happened.

I lost my Slim Jim. When I say "lost," I mean TSA "confiscated" it. Here's what happened:

My grrrrrl dropped me off and I went into the terminal. I determined my gate and made my way to the security check-in. When I finally got through the line to the scanner, I chucked my backpack in and threw all the rest of my junk, including the Slim Jim, into a plastic bin and sent it through. My sac came through okay and but one of the genius TSA goons took the plastic bin containing all the rest of my junk to one of the exam tables.
"Whose is this?" he asked.  
"That's my junk," I said.
"What is this," he asked, holding up my Slim Jim.
"THAT is a Deli-style, pepperoni-flavored Slim Jim," I answered.
"It looks like a club. Can't bring clubs. It's on the list: No clubs, baseball bats, blackjacks, lighters. It's not allowed."
I was stunned. "It's not a club, it's a spicy, beefy, deli-style meat stick! It's not a club!"
He was not deterred. "Can't even be close to a club. This thing is close to a club. I can't let you take it. It's long and thick like a club. It's a forbidden item."
Thinking this jerk was going to steal my meaty treat I made a desperate proposal. "How about I bite it in half ... right down the middle? Maybe chew on the ends a little? If it's long enough to be mistaken for a club, I'll make it less long and take the rest on the plane? What do ya say?"
"Violation," he said. "No eating near the scanner-thing. I'm going to have to confiscate it. Please take the rest of your things and move along. And PLEASE put back on your shoes." Then he returned to his post - with my Slim Jim.

That fuckin' jerk. He stole my dinner and implied my feet stank. They didn't. I checked.

Tonight - The Homestead

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bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!