You Want To Talk TSA Scares? OK, Let's Talk TSA Scares

So I read Nate’s anti-TSA blog he posted at 2 AM about his harrowing experience and it reminded me of my trip back from Tallahassee.

First of all, Nate, you don’t get to complain about TSA when you’re leaving for vacation. Getting searched by TSA then is like getting in a fight with your girlfriend when you know you’re right, you get to smugly sit there and let them lose their minds. Yeah, go ahead, search everything, I know there’s nothing there because I checked every pants pocket and every crevice of that bag while packing. I assure you my inspections are more detailed than yours, I don’t want to go to jail. You’re just collecting a paycheck. But knock yourselves out. You don’t feel helpless or anything, you feel like the smartest guy in the room.

The real TSA danger comes when you pack hungover after a long weekend. After you’ve spent 3 days blackout at college, wake up in a haze Sunday morning, throw anything and everything into a bag, while double checking nothing, then head to the airport. That’s what I did in Tallahassee.

Hungover as shit, I began the process of unloading everything onto the conveyor belt. Phone, wallet, tin, shoes, sweatshirt, laptop, etc. You know the drill. All the while telling myself, Ten minutes. Ten minutes and you can get a beer at Chili’s. Just make it ten more minutes, man. Once I cross the Xray machine I can practically taste the hair of the dog.

Then, a man grabs me and says, “Sir we have reason to suspect there’s contraband in your bag. Please step aside.”

That’s where I begin to freak out. That’s where the hungover packing really fucks you. Because I’ll admit, while away at college I may have done some immature things. Maybe partook in a few illegal activities. I had forgotten about that Shampoo Beer and was now thinking Shit. Something is still in my bag and I have to figure out how to blog from Guantanamo tomorrow.

The dude starts running through the routine. Pats me down, pulls my bag aside, swabs it and tests it, reaches his hand in and looks at the rest of his TSA buddies and says, “Got it. I’ve got it,” like he’s a hero. I’m honestly considering running at this point. Until he pulls out a fucking water bottle that they gave me on my flight in.

A water bottle?! That’s what classifies as “contraband” and almost gives 27 year olds heart attacks these days? A motherfucking water bottle?!

But, I’m not here just to throw stones. I’m bringing solutions as well. Get a Threat Level vocabulary. Similar to how the country runs from green to red, get certain words you use depending on the severity of the situation. Bombs or drugs? Those are big ones, that’s contraband. A mini Dasani that a Jet Blue flight attendant handed to me and I forgot about? That’s “a disapproved product.” It still let’s me know I have something I shouldn’t, but you don’t have to worry about hungover young men dropping dead from fear.

Think about it and get back to me.