My great airport debacle

I have always resented rules, especially when I determine they are stupid and/or inforced inconsistently. Placing a very close second is my dislike for authority figures. I encountered both at the Ft. Lauderdale airport.

It's a simple but moving story: a TSA agent took away my snow globe. Apparently it’s a weapon. I thought it was a stupid rule, but I was more concerned with flying safely than I was about pressing the point. What got me—but didn’t matter a lick to that fat fuck of a TSA agent—was that I purchased the snow globe at the Baltimore airport and flew with it, in my carry-on bag, to Ft. Lauderdale.

If there is a syndrome that is to impotent men what Napoleonic complexes are to short people, this prick could have been its poster boy. He was a strident son-of-a-bitch whose delight in my displeasure was written all over his body, in huge neon letters.

“I don’t care what they do in Baltimore,” he crowed. “That snow globe isn’t leaving here.” He told me I could mail it, but I didn't have enough time.

"Well, then, you’ll have to hand it over.” He took the bag and threw it away immediately. Right in front of me.

Prior to this event, the only problems I had ever encountered going through airport security were caused by the underwire in my bra. So it took me a second or two to process that I was furious at this jerk. I knew enough to whisper my curses, but they came fast and furious, like the orgasms in his dreams.

I began an internal dialogue. “Go get that thing out of the trash.” “Don’t. You could get in trouble.” “He’s an asshole and his rule is ludicrous. Get the goddamn snow globe.” "You really shouldn't. Just get to the gate."

That my son was witnessing this meltdown only fueled my passion to reclaim the snow globe. I was sure the incident was destined to be the film that played in his head whenever he needed inspiration. Sort of like Rocky running the steps at the Philly Museum of Art, but with a better soundtrack.

I was wasting time and I knew it. Quickly, I slipped into my sandals and gathered my stuff from the conveyor belt. Corporal Cocksucker had his back to me; he was busy “assisting” other travelers. Fearlessly, I dropped to my knees, crawled to the trash can and reached my arm right in. Bag in hand and headed for victory, the agent did an about-face. Apparently, he is such a freak that he actually has eyes in the back of his blockhead.

He screamed—and boy do I love when authority figures do that—“Ma’am, what are you doing?”

He was angry at my blatent disrespect. I was angry at my failure to succeed. “Uh. I thought I’d mail it after all,” I countered, not nearly as forcefully as I would have liked.

“I don’t think so,” he smirked. “Once you surrender an item, it’s ours.” He put my snow globe back in the trash, exactly where he belonged.