Stories from the Voices in My Head presents: Tales from the Archives

Read the title – it’s pretty damn self explanatory

(Getting and early jump on the bitching are we?)

Hello, my name is Ryan and I come in peace. Of sorts.

Welcome again ladies and gents to another segment of legalized schizophrenia where I pour my soul out and unleash upon this mortal coil the spewing bullshit that builds up inside me.

Or maybe I’m just taking a break from writing, by doing a different kind of writing. (I just realized how dumb that sounds. That’s like taking a break from doing drugs by going to Amsterdam.)

Anyway. Given that I’ve run out of ideas and I’m done wrestling with my head for something to spew out, I’ve decided to dig into the archives and see if a particular tale struck me.

It did. It was more of a bitch slap, but it did strike me. There is a theme here with regards to airport security. My conflict is is it really the individual’s fault for us having a hard time or is it the society which shapes individuals into being horrible? I mean, I know some people in security who are very nice. I know cops who are just doing their job when they stop you on the street or give you the once over. At the end of the day these are just people like you and I, trying to pay bills and put their kids through college. I think in these situations, unless there is a major invasion of privacy, like when a cop pulls you over, just go along with it. It’ll be over in a minute and you won’t get arrested.

But there is the other type of guy – the utter assholes who clearly enjoy abusing their power. The sad part is, these motherfuckers ruin the gig for everybody and they are the ones generally stopping you and harassing you for doing exactly fuck nothing.

(Oh right. This is not a rant post. Focus, Ryan, focus)

So my story takes place at the local airport about a year ago. My friend Shaun and I have just landed from a comic con and we’re eager to go home and get some sleep.

Let me emphasize this – We LANDED. Which means we are done with the border controls, passport checks and security shit. We are DONE.

We’re sitting there, waiting for our bags to appear on the conveyor belt. We are exactly 10 minutes away from the parking lot and on our way home.

So we wait for our bags. 20 minutes pass and everyone leaves leaving only us there. We start getting worried – have they lost our bags? We (Well, I) had 3 bags – two of which contained books which I had self published and sold at the con. The other had a whole bunch of really cool and expensive souvenirs and to be honest, that was the one I really didn’t want to loose.

By this time the entire airport wing was devoid of people and only 3 security guys lurked around clearly annoyed that we were the only two there. Me and Shaun were too exhausted to even notice that everyone was gone and just kept ourselves awake by trading dick jokes.

Finally our bags, which had been spinning on the fucking belt this whole time like an alcoholic after a successful weekend, were on a trolley. 3 giant suitcases piled on top of eachother as two midgets (completely hidden behind them) stumbled drunkenly so as not to get run over.

And this scenario is apparently enough to trigger a red flag.

As we try to walk out we get pulled over by security. there are 3 guys there – an elder fellow who is clearly a born douchebag. He has a handlebar mustache (like I needed more reason to hate his guts) and an expression that clearly said “I enjoy making you sweat.”

The other two were shorter, muscled and had their hands loosely on their hips. Now, I’ve trained with enough policemen in this country to know that ‘hand on hip’ can very easily become ‘gun in hand and shots fired’. So when I say that, I complied because I don’t like being drilled (not even in the Freddie Mercury way).

So there we are: two tiny wankers having our luggage checked by Mr. Handlebar. He opens up one of my bags and his eyebrows shoot up like a firecracker on the 4th of July when he sees it’s filled with books.

Now for those of you who have never packed piles of books in a suitcase – they look exactly like cocaine keys, except they have very cool covers.

This wanker grabs one and flicks it. I tell him I wrote them and show him our comic con passes. He keeps flipping the pages and examining the book.

Now I know I’m a smart cookie (seriously I am). But not even my genius had managed to uncover a way to smuggle drugs in between the pages of a novel. Maybe he was waiting for an unexpected bulge of Hash to appear, maybe a sheet of LSD to slip out as a bookmark. I got no cocking idea.

what I do know is that he made me take out two book filled bags, which if you have a touch of the OCD does not go so well. He read the back and smiled.

By this time the other two gave up and walked away stifling laughter. This somehow aggravated the Mr. Handlebar (That sounds so wrong doesn’t it) even more. He seemed determined to make us guilty of something.

So he asks to open the souvenir bag.

Now this is where I got uncomfortable. See, inside this bag was a bat. (not the animal, just a flat piece of wood). On this bat were inscribed the words SEME and UKE on each respective side.

For those of you who don’t speak japanese and who are not into gay hentai porn – SEME means ‘giver’ and UKE means ‘receiver’.

That’s about as much detail as I wanna go into.

Next to this gay porn bat are two portraits. One of them is a picture of DMC’s Nero and Vergil – but they are females and wear alot of leather and carry swords. (Hey we all got our weaknesses OK? Get off my dick). But the other portrait (Shaun’s) is a full on nude oil painting of some anime character he likes.

So to prove my point I reach under the bat and portraits and lift up a handful of Yoda and kitty keychains and yell quite desperately

“They’re just souvenirs!”

At this point the other two are too busy staring at the nude picture to care. I could have produced a sniper rifle and a war tank – it wouldn’t have made a difference.

Finally this guy just gives us this look of pity – as in; he’s not gonna be the douchebag who arrests us for being too sad and lonely that we needed to buy a 100 quids worth of nude paintings just to get our jollies on. He figured that women hate us already as it is – no need to keep beating us.

(I am making this thought process up but it’s uncanny how true it is. Apparently women hate it when you outsmart them).

And bdw – Shaun was of no help whatsoever as usual. He just stayed there not making eye contact. That dude was so tired he just scowled at the security guys and stared blankly into the empty space.

As I write this I figured out why they stopped us. We looked high. We looked as if we had a million capsules up our asses and one of them had leaked into our central nervous system.

 

So what I mean to say is that people are usually a by product of their training and upbringing. But it’s funny how the most memorable experiences are with the few assholes that tend to ruin it for everybody else. I guess at the end of the day people have to remember that everyone is in the same boat.

We’re all trying to pay bills, have food on the table and take care of our selves and families. No need to be douchebags to people who have annoying jobs. Just smile and make their life easy. They tend to appreciate it and be quite nice.

The ones who are truly horrid are few and we gotta remember that for every bad apple out there, there are at least two good (but hidden) ones. The sad truth is that assholes exist and we can either let them ruin our lives (like when they post a bad review) or ignore it a trudge on.

But that doesn’t mean we can’t smile as we imagine them being hit over both heads with a gay porn bat.

Peace out,

(his own giver and receiver)

Ryan

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