It’s always the same story, every time I fly: Car to the airport—price goes up a dollar. Check-in at the e-ticket kiosk—a 25-minute wait in the security line, followed by a big, fat “random” check. Apparently, they’ve got me picked out from the parking lot. Sorry to kill the suspense, fellas, but I already know you’re going to thoroughly search every inch of not only my stuff, but every inch of me as well. You haven’t failed once in the last 15 times I’ve flown. And yes, I’m well, well aware that the last two stamps on my passport are from Jamaica and Holland, and that I’m currently wearing a “Pot is good for children and other living things” shirt. Yes, I dressed myself.
Don’t bother waving me over: I’m already waiting in your “other” line. Smiling and whistling, ’cause I’m already stoned. So go ahead and look through my shit. Please! If you zip open the little pink bag tucked under that pair of muddy jeans, you’ll find I’ve left a little surprise in there for you: a greasy, open container of moldy sardines. Whoops! Silly ol’ me must’ve forgot to throw that away. Look inside my stinky sneakers. I tucked away a bunch of sewing needles for that nosy little hand of yours. “A prick for a prick”—that’s what I always say. What’s that? The tiny little cylinder you’re holding looks like a crack pipe? Well, it’s actually a lubed-up suppository remover that must have just fell out of its case somehow.
As you may have noticed, these days I don’t pack for functionality. Rare is the occasion when my luggage contains anything that I’ll actually need once I disembark from the plane. Ski gloves for the Alps? Preposterous! Instead: a Toblerone box chock-full of gristly chicken bones. A bathing suit at the beach? Never! In Florida, I bring prescription bottles full of snotty, phlegmy tissues. In Texas, a lone cigarette carton packed with dog poop. I’m promoting maximum distraction, mind you, not security. You wanna be secure? Well, I got my ass covered—how’s that for security?
And so I know, by heart, the wand routine. Right leg up, right leg down, left leg up, left leg down, arms out to my side, palms up, a little pat here—that’s my hip, a little pat there—that’s my other hip, stand in the “learn how to dance like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers” feet, and face your bags so you can watch as federal employees defile your stuff—sniffing and poking and prodding at every little zipper and pocket and pouch, including all the booby traps I set up for them. Next, a female’s finger down my cleavage, patting around my bra, the woman acting like she’s never worn (much less seen) a bra—cocking her head to the side as if she has no idea what that strange wire inside of my brassiere could possibly be doing there, and what nefarious purpose it might serve. The wand waves up and down my chest at least three more times before she finally decides that maybe it really does need to be there for mysterious boobular reasons, and not to aid and “support” international terrorism.