It was a warm sunny day in Central Alberta, only -12C(10.4F). Two Alberta boys packed their bags and headed to Whistler, BC for the first time of their lives. Don't let what you pack define your travels, but don't forget to pack something special. And so they decided to bring a special package with them, because F#*K airline security. Soon after the idea was born, a quarter ounce of the devil's lettuce was busted and wrapped in a layer of saran wrap. And then another layer. And another. This continued until the players were left with a sole-shaped bundle of green goodness that we assumed to be smell proof. Why bring bud from AB to BC? A great question, and the answer at that time was 'pure convenience'
So we took a ski boot, ripped out the liner, unscrewed the boot-board and exposed an empty chamber below. The sole-shaped bundle of bud was placed into the chamber. The boot-board was replaced, followed by the liner. The final defence was a pair of ski socks crammed into the boot. Socks that had seen 5 days of action in the last 3 days. Look up the definition of rank, and these socks would be pictured.
The boots then went into the roller-ski bag, along with 2 pairs of skis, outerwear, and a week's worth of clothes (tho 2 days of clothes would be the same). And off to the airport we go! In true youngin' style, our mom's drove us to the airport. And they took us to the check-in, where they watched as our bags were weighed and tagged. My ski-bag was only 4.5lbs over the 50lb limit. My mom recommended that I just take my boots as carry-on. No. Fucking. Way. I complained about the hassle and the hostess waived the overweight charge. I think that I'm in the clear, until I hear "Please go now to the over-size baggage screening area."
I would compare the adrenaline rush to dropping into a 60-foot table... switch. I head over to the Over-size Baggage Screening Area, roller bag in tow. I am greeted with a beautiful young woman, struggling to lift her suitcase onto the conveyor belt. Keep in mind that this suitcase is larger than most homes in Africa, and maybe you can understand her dilemma. "How the F*#K do they expect us to lift our F*C#!N@ over-sized bags onto this stupid F*@King belt?!?!"
Her angelic tones rang throughout the airport. I felt like a knight in shining armour when i lifted her suitcase onto the belt. Bonding moment. We all stood in line, watching the awkwardly as pieces of luggage being passed through the X-ray machine, screen in full view. My anxiety builds as I watch the security agents swipe other bags with a mysterious cotton swab. Will they find the stash?
The woman's bag enters the X-ray. All I can make out is a clusterfuck of shit, with random penis like objects throughout. The guard asks her to identify a certain piece of the clusterfuck. She has no idea, and starts freakin out on the guards. "What the fuck is that? I have no idea!" The guards ask her to open the bag, and she freaks out again, "How the f*#k do you expect me to know what that is? How?,"
"Well maybe we can open you bags to I.D. what is it,"
"NO F@#K%&G WAY CAN YOU OPEN MY BAG! I had to sit on it to close it! If you open it, you close it!!!!"
"Yes ma'am, we will have to open your bag,"
"FINE!!! You F#*cking piece of $H!T!Just close it or else!!!"
The guard unzips the suitcase, and wigs, costumes, and toys start popping out of the case. As the guard folds the lid over completely, its releases a stack of pictures. They scatter across the floor of the airport, spreading nude photos of the 'lady-in-question,' through the lobby of the airport. Seeing the pictures of her tits and cooter being spread across the airport, she goes ballistic. Not just ballistic woman, but ballistic stripper. She freaks out, attacking all security guards present. The guard behind the desk calls for backup. Then the guard takes our bags and bypasses the x-ray and scanners, throwing them into the baggage chute with no questions asked. We walk out of there with 'Gimme Shelter" blaring uncontrollably in our heads as we make our way into the waiting room.
After an hour of waiting, we are called onto the plane. We have seats 21 B and 21 C. Guess who is 21A? The fuckin stripper! She had her phat beats on, so we never talked to her. But i hope she felt how grateful we were to have a nice, big fatty waiting for us at landing... even though it smelt slightly like old ski socks....
