Tuesday, May 30, 2006

Fuck LAX:

Ok first of all when did the guys with the German shepards become standard issue? What the fuck is going on in this country? How is making a bunch of stoners like myself self-conscious, because they think they the bomb sniffing dogs are drug sniffing dogs, good for national security?

Ok so I was totally fucking faded when I got to LAX; which in my opinion is the only way to fly. The line is like mad long and I have hella luggage with me. Yeah I know I am only going for four days, but what if a film festival breaks out, I need to be prepared. And being prepared means bringing my PSP and every CD that I own.

So I am attempting to check in through the automated e-ticket system which really should be renamed “we have so much disdain for our customers, we don’t even like to speak to them”; and the guy in front of me can’t figure it out. He can’t figure it out! I just smoked a pound of weed and beat my dick to illegal porn and I’m ok to fly, what-the-fuck is his problem? Oh now he’s asking questions “does the strip face to the right?”…gee I don’t know, why don’t you look at the fucking diagram on the machine! Ok so where do they grow theses people – you know the people in So-cal, the ones who never shop for themselves so they don’t know how to operate an ATM or to enter a Ralph’s card number. I think they should be lined up and shot. Right after we shoot the people who do 50MPH on the I-10 (exactly what part of 6-lanes and no cops do you not understand?).

So he’s harshing my mellow and I switch lines. Apparently that identifies my as a suspicious threat, because now I have eyes on me. I navigate the e-ticket check-in like I’m playing golden Tee (I’ll take your fuckin’ lunch money) and it begins to print my tickets. The queen of polyester comes over and asks to see my ID – like any rational person would want to impersonate me; the parking fines alone are enough to insure my identity is never stolen – but whatever.

Anyway we do the whole bag check thing; and to be honest with you I have absolutely no faith in the baggage tracking system. I mean I have seen more interest and attention to detail from the toll booth attendants (what a happy group of people working in that industry) than these motherfuckers (yeah I know, my cursing is way below my average – well fuck you for noticing). I mean all it is is a SKU number tagged on your bags and that’s it. I mean I would wager to guess that it’s not a six-pack of Rhode Scholars working the other end of the belt…but whatever.

So we do the whole “where are you traveling to today” thing; I guess they have tripped up a few terrorists who must have blurted out “to see some Allah” or something. So I try to be funny since Yoda got me in the spirit… “I’m going to the dirty” (pronounced “dur-deh”

excuse me sir

The dirty-dirty. The ATL….you know “me and you…your momma and your cousin too”

She has no reaction (man, I sang it too). Apparently Gertrude is not an OUTKAST fan, but she wishes me well and I’m off to my gate.

Now keep in mind that I fly a lot, like once every three weeks (and do you have any idea how tough it is to get weed on the road?) and I probably am in the running for worst food choices in an international airport, but that’s another story (bad Chinese and a long flight…do the math). Oh but wait, I have to go through security. I love the hard stares from people who are about as qualified to be in security as they are to be astronauts…but whatever. I get the hard stare and the 5 second look at my drivers license and a scribble on my boarding pass. Now I know that there is a code in the scribble, because sometimes the scribble means “he’s mad cool”, and sometimes it means “bust his fuckin’ nuts”…I haven’t figured it out, but I am on to them.

Why is it that I am always behind the most uncoordinated motherfuckers on the planet. This guy in front of me cannot keep all his trays together (because he’s Mr. carry-on-no-it’s gonna fit guy and he has a grip of shit) and have his boarding pass ready and keep up with the line. I am contemplating killing him, but where will I hide the body?

Ok it’s my turn and I have already been yelled at for not taking off my shoes (I could kill that shoe bomber guy, nice work asshole!). I do a little dance like I’m KC as I walk through the metal detector (and let me point out that it does not go over well – even if you sing) and they think I am up to something. Like the next terrorist will wear a pro-marijuana T-shirt and sing and dance through security calling as much attention to himself as possible. But then I remember what started all this… I said what’s up to a Sikh cat as I was entering security (he was going through as well), that’s when I got the special attention. I look over at his line and he’s already through and lacing up his kicks (uh.. that means shoes – white people)… I swear to god he said “sucker!” before he ran off. See the whole fuckin’ place is a shake down.



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