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Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Sample Sunday - strip searched at airpoort

Sometimes I don’t engage my brain. Only when we were about to leave for Egypt did the thought strike me that there probably weren’t going to be many good-looking babes amongst the mummies. My God, what have I gotten myself into: a whole summer of celibate philosophizing in a foreign country, dust storms and death in the heat of the desert? This is not exactly what I had in mind.

To make matters worse, I found out the Professor’s wife wasn’t going to join us on the trip. Who was going to cook for us? I guess flat biscuits weren’t her thing. No wonder God parted the Red Sea so the Jews could exit from Egypt during Pharaoh’s time around 1570 B.C. Who wants to hang around with a bunch of dumb dead mummies whose idea of music probably revolved around a rock band called the Walking Deadbeats, banging a bunch of pots and pans? Oh, I forgot they didn’t have pans in those days. I guess that’s why Mrs. Armstrong didn’t want to come along. She wasn’t going to be able to make her luscious biscuits. I think the heat is getting to me and I haven’t even left the country yet.

Before we got on our charter flight from San Diego International to Cairo – the good professor had booked us on this special flight with a bunch of other college groups to save money, security took a special interest in us, making us remove not only our shoes, but also our socks, in an examination that took the better part of two hours. They made us strip down to our underwear searching for bombs or whatever, and would have done worse if we didn’t complain.

I personally think it was because the two security guards were female, but the good professor said it was probably because we were going to Egypt, which had a reputation of harboring terrorists since it was the home of an organization called The Muslim Brotherhood, which was trying to cause a revolution and take the country over. Thank God I didn’t keep my parents gift of steel spiked boots. They probably wouldn’t have let me on the plane.

The woman security guard who was conducting our search said, “Okay, now take off your underwear and bend over.”

I said, “No Miss, I will not.” What the hell is going on here? I’m not a prisoner on the way to jail. I thought we were supposed to be searched by men. I want to see the head of security.

“What’s the matter, big boy, you shy? You’re blushing,” said the female security guard who must have weighed three hundred pounds. Her skinny, pimple faced friend laughed from a corner of the glass-enclosed cubicle, holding her hands in front of her eyes in mock embarrassment at my nakedness. The room, part of a maze of inspection rooms, was bare except for a small metal table and one desk type chair.

“Not anymore, lady. I’ve got nothing left to hide, and stop poking me with that electronic wand. You’re supposed to use that to see if I’m carrying any hidden weapons. Do I look like I’m carrying a hidden weapon?”

"Take your underpants off big boy and I'll let you know."

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