9:00 AM - 2004-11-07
transpo
I was standing in my socks at an airport security screening table, watching as a guard unpacked my shit and wondering whether my briefcase still smelled like weed from two years ago. A gentleman with an eye patch stooped to retrieve his bag from the x-ray conveyor behind me, paused to slip his loafers back on, and continued towards his boarding gate unmolested. Alarmed, I shot my attendant security officer one of those open-mouthed "hey, did you see that?" looks. He answered with one of those sweaty-crew-cut type "No, I didn't" looks. Then he pushed my briefcase, my 5 boxes of Macadamia Nut candy, my tape measure, my dirty magazine, and my dog-eared book on home wiring back over for repacking. Now- I don't know how many hours of villain identification training these guys have to complete before they're certified...but, Hello! Eye-patch! And don't get me wrong; I'm all against profiling and stuff. I'm sure there are plenty of "good" guys who "happen" to sport an eye patch; just like there're plenty of "innocent" bald men who choose to wear a monocle, carry a dagger, and speak with a guttural German accent. I'm sure every airport sees its share of handicapped, billionaire, cat-fanciers being wheeled "innocently" through customs by their 300 LB Japanese manservants; and that "every" werewolf isn't out to feast on the warm, limp, carcass of the pilot and that most mummies have no inclination whatsoever to rise up out of their sarcophagi in cargo, punch their leathery claws through the thin sheet metal flooring in coach and exact their ancient revenge upon the terrified passengers. But I gotta get on one of those planes too, y'know?
So like...hands against the wall, there, Patch.
