In The Big Inning...

So, as I mentioned earlier, I was in Colorado this past weekend for my fraternity brother Craig's wedding. I flew into the Denver airport. On my way back home, I was going through security, as usual. I've done this silly little dance a billion times. I'd write another blog entry about it, except I fear it would be redundant. Suffice it to say that I imagine the security line would be a tad faster if people actually followed the goddamn signs and took all their metal stuff out of their pockets BEFORE getting to the front of the line. I know, that would make too much sense.

Well, this time, I guess I was a hypocrite, since I forgot to take off my watch, and so I beeped. Usually I go to extreme lengths to avoid beeping, but I guess I was distracted this time. At any rate, they redirected me into this little plexiglass cell for a bit, before releasing me and allowing the guard to pat me down. This time, I got a rookie. He was clearly a little nervous, as he spoke really quickly and with a definite lack of confidence. This made him a tad bit unintelligible, and he was forced to repeat his commands a few times. This was compounded by the fact that he was very thorough - I had to raise my hands with the palms up, as he patted my arms, and then he patted down my ankles, asking for permission first. As he wanded me, it beeped as the wand went over the metal rivet on my jeans.

This triggered phase two of the pat down, which apparently he hadn't been fully trained in, because the rookie guard then had to be given step by step instructions from his looming mentor. "Pat down his waist." "Have him turn his waistband out." "Pat down his stomach." And, finally, "Don't touch his junk."

I had to try very hard to keep from laughing. Maybe I should have said, "No, no, go right ahead." I wonder what would have happened. Anyways, next time I know - if I want to smuggle a weapon on board an airplane, I'll keep it next to my junk.