Do you like airports?
'Cause I love airports.
As soon as I pull up to an airport in my lil' taxi (every day, around 3:30), I immediately relax. Here's a space where I know exactly what to do! Here is a place where I know all the rules. A totally neutral, devoid-of-personality, filled-with-bullshit-"public-art" place to come home to each day.
The airport! Any airport!
They're so exciting!
There's the buzz of activity; the hummmm of thousands of people waddling to Applebees; the thrill of going somewhere - anywhere - else.
- I love watching the anxious families with their "Welcome Home, Darren!" signs at Baggage Claim.
- I love the smug, white, fat business-guys getting shoeshines. They smirk like Cheshire cats from atop their lofty thrones, unaware that diabetes is just a few short years away.
- I love checking out other people's outfits. This usually leads to me thinking either:
A) What the fuck, lady? You knew you were going to be walking the equivalent of 30 city blocks in O'Hare today, why'd you wear the spike heels? orB) If you don't have an ass worth looking at, why would you draw attention to it by having something written on it in bold letters? (and what does it mean if your ass is "Juicy?" That you don't wipe properly? Turd juicicles?)I love all of it.
The enforced waiting. The gift shop crawl.
The lone guy, running the wrong way (doin' the salmon!) through the throngs of people, running a race against the imminent closure of his flight's doors. I find I want to watch hysterical H1N1 "updates" on the CNN screens.
I want to know exactly the situation between John and Kate Gosselin, and I'm willing to buy another US Weekly, just to find out.
I love airports. Love 'em.
But there's one aspect of airports I love best, and that is....
The Turbo-Butches who work for TSA.
You know what I'm talking about.
The seriously dykey security-checkpoint screeners.
Built like Mack trucks. Wearing uniforms! With badges!
For some reason, shit-tons of dykes work at airports. There's a butch in almost every X-ray line!
This makes my life on the road...a little bit brighter.
Annnnd I have a little secret:
If I'm not pressed for time, I intentionally put on a bulky sweatshirt (not TSA-approved!!) and get into the the line that has the Butch Dyke Screener.
Ahahahaha. This invariably leads to a pat-down.
You're supposed to take your sweatshirt off. But - what if you don't have another shirt on underneath??
That's when you smile sweetly at the TSA Security Butch and say,
"Oh, oops, I don't have anything on under this. I'm sowwry."
(Bambi eyes *plinkplink*)
The TSA Security Butch is then legally obliged to run her muscley hands allllll over you. Mmmm.
Nothing gets me through my day like sexually harassing others without their knowledge or consent.
It's the most funnest if you're dressed kinda gay to begin with.Sometimes, then, the TSA Security Butch starts flirting with you! Or you just think she's flirting with you! (Either one. Both do the same for your ego.)
Take this Sunday, at Chicago Midway Airport!
In Security Screening Line wearing favorite ironic bulky hoodie with horses on the front)
TSA Security Butch: Ma'am, could you remove the sweatshirt?
Me: Oh, oops, I don't have anything on under this. I'm sowwwy. *plinkplink*
TSA Security Butch: Could you step over here, please. We'll have to do a pat-down.
Me: Darn it!
TSA Security Butch: (patting me gently) Could you spread your arms. So...do you really like horses, or are you just being funny? Your shirt.
Me: It's a little of both. Ooh, that tickles!
TSA Security Butch: Please hold still. (finishes patting) Well, you're all clear. Not hiding anything in there, are ya?
Me: (smug-grinning-so-hard-cannot-speak-coherently)Auggheeheehee. NOoooo. Mkuaubuluah. Noooosecurtitty threat. Goookealmmm..Thannnnks.
If you hate traveling, you should do what I do and you'll like it better.Swear to God.
I like to imagine the TSA Security Butch has oil on her hands when she does the pat-down.