Home, home again.
I like to be here when I can.
And when I come home cold and tired
It’s good to warm the porcelain by farting.
– Pink Floyd
I must remain somewhat vague here — lawyers, consent decrees, gag orders, maybe some common sense tossed in — but do you believe me when I tell you the most, um, stimulating aspect of our vacation was the full body cavity search in the airport security area on the way home?
It started innocently enough. I spot an acquaintance from many years ago standing across the aisle and give him an enthusiastic vu-hellew…. “Hi, Jack,” I holler, and am immediately surrounded by scowling TSA authorities, some quite large.
Upon request, I feign helpfulness and produce legitimate paperwork, but evidently they sense my innate hostility to authority and hustle me off, Guido following, rolling her eyes in resignation. “Who the bloody fuck says ‘hijack’ in the airport?” she hisses at me. “Where do you fucking hide the brains you were born with?” (Note the adverbial deployment of “fucking.” Guido’s a south Philadelphian.)
A married man, I’m accustomed to having my manhood and integrity derided by intimates as well as strangers. Of course, shivering naked in a cold room — I’m the one who lives without air conditioning, remember — enduring the incredulous stares and sneers of security agents who seem alternately nauseated and suspicious observing all 23 articles of jewelry I wear daily not counting the leather (most of which not apparent when fully dressed) — my family jewels simply disappear: they retract, I suspect, up my ass (where my brains reside along with my Oak of Amour). Security is at best bemused.
At this point I attempt to lighten it up a trifle and tell them that only contraband I have is Atlantic City salt water taffy (Fralingers), and that it’s packed in my suitcase, “not up my ass — that’s the fudge.” Bad move. Dipshit who said “hijack” just said “contraband.” It gets a little grimmer at this point.
Anyway, try as they might they can find/prove/display nothing at all to detain me further (there’s no law (yet) prohibiting wise ass conduct), so my clothing is returned — I resist the urge to walk out nude just for sensation — and we actually make our flight. An hour into it, I feel some intestinal distress, unbuckle my seat belt and make a run for the head, then end up farting out what appears to be a plastic identification tag that found its way inside during the examination. Or maybe it’s a homing device. Whatever, it’s now encrusted in blue ice.
Anyway we’re home and I’m blogging again. I missed you , too.