There’s nothing cute about making a bunch of jokes about 9/11, even if you follow them with “Too soon?”* A couple other things not-so-amusing to follow that horrendous day are our ongoing, disastrous escapades in the Middle East and, of course, the Transportation Security Administration. Easy target, I agree, and I’m not revving up to take a bunch of pot shots at those who are literally all that’s keeping the next deranged murder junkie from boarding my plane. I do not question the need for an organized federal security force maintaining a watchful eye on those intending to traverse the nation’s skies. I think most of us can agree, though, that the level of competency and trustworthiness displayed by those standing between you and your destination is mixed at best.
I don’t cast these aspersions widely. Many TSA agents are not only alert and attentive, but pleasant and friendly. I understand and (up to a point) agree with both the concept and methods of air traffic security. When asked to do something by a TSA agent, I do it without getting too rankled. What I do not respond well to are unintelligibly mumbled instructions (especially if stupid), sarcasm (leave that to me, you amateurs), and generally rude and inconsiderate treatment. It’s basic human psychology: If you want someone to do something for you—especially something he or she does not want to do—you’re more likely to get compliance if you ask nicely. And, before you flame me on that, I’m not suggesting some I’m-ok-you’re-ok PC bullshit, just some basic human courtesy. Aggression breeds aggression; it’s an innate animal behavior and rapidly escalates. I suspect there are some self-styled robocops in the Administration who consciously goad the short-fused so that they can deliberately jam the line, sow misery into the throng of discontented travelers, and flex the remarkable authority they have. Yes, this person in the ill-fitting blue shirt you presume did not graduate high school wields the fearsome power to make you miss your vacation and spread ’em for a gloved fist. However, if you’re going to be a hardass, ladies and gentlemen of the TSA, you’d better look like a genuine hardass. I’m much more willing to take guff from somebody who looks like Gunnery Sergeant Crushnuts than I am from a middle-aged slob, a twerpy twenty-something, or someone who looks like they might be serving out court-ordered restitution.
Verbal force is not always unwarranted, though. The tremendous slack I cut the TSA comes from seeing the imbeciles and assholes churned off the Carousel of Mental Stagnation and into the Queue of Disquietude endlessly winding toward the little podium with the UV light. For hours on end, the poor unarmed souls of the TSA must contend with one of the widest spectrums of humanity found anywhere outside a county courthouse. There is no physical separation between the most smug, entitled, uncooperative prick and the basest, recently released piece of crap in a white tank top and oversize ball cap. The dipshits who purposely (or unwittingly) make the impracticable process of vetting the dregs of barely civilized society more unbearable for those on both ends of the figurative cavity search deserve much worse than verbal belittling and further inconvenience. Because I am invariably early and prepared, I merrily and patiently watch the wretched wonders in line ahead of me treated like petulant children.
So there’s a summary of generalities. Let me briefly tell you something specific that got my goat today…
As I just said, with rare exception I arrive to the airport early. As I approach the security checkpoint, I remove my wallet, watch, and belt, stowing them in my appropriately sized carry-on. I untie my shoes and have my 3-1-1 liquids readily accessible. My driver’s license and boarding pass are in hand as I step into line. If nothing silly occurs, I can lift a bin from the stack, kick my shoes and drop my liquids into it, and neatly hoist my bag and bin onto the conveyor belt in one deft sequence of efficient movement. This has developed not from extensive flying experience but from—despite my instincts—actually giving two shits about those in line behind me and from NOT HAVING MY HEAD UP MY ASS.
So, this morning was no different, and I expected extra diligence considering the date. There was no extra scrutiny at the ID check podium. As I neared the bins with my shoes and belt removed, liquids in hand, the TSA agent stationed there gave me a poopie face, rolled his eyes, and said,
Seriously? Today of all days? And I’m the moron here?! I don’t know what the fuck the purpose is for keeping travel-sized liquids separate for NO ONE to look at (seriously, no TSA agent has ever so much as glanced at my liquids bag, and you can’t tell me the X-ray machine can tell the difference between hair gel and napalm) but I would think that the two quirkiest security measures to spring up post-9/11 would not so suddenly and without fanfare be dropped from protocol on the anniversary of the worst airline tragedy in the history of the country. I know that some airports have inconsistent applications of certain security measures (which is maddening), but not this airport, which was—did I forget to mention?—LOGAN INTERNATIONAL FUCKING AIRPORT.
Oh, TSA. So predictable in your unpredictability. If it was an actual strategy to keep the bad guys guessing I’d applaud it, but it was probably just some inept, bureaucratic bullshit cynically relayed from one middling manager to another in the ultimate apathetic game of telephone.
To those in the TSA who do give two shits and do not wear their own ass as a hat: I am sorry my fellow passengers treat you with such contempt, and I’m sorry you work alongside ignoramuses who cast a bad light on the lot of you. Thank you for your dedication and your service. Now, can we please speed this along?
*Yes, it is, fuckwad.
Spew Forth Your Blather