The TSA; a.k.a. the Time-wasting Sexual Assaulters

So, everyone and their dog in the blogosphere has been ranting and raving about the horrendous actions of the TSA in recent weeks.  I'm trying not to follow too many trends, but I can't help but want to share a particular experience I had with this crack-squad of savvy-motivated personnel.  It may not be as exiting of a tale as some others, or as pornographic, but it certainly merits a re-telling here.

About a week shy of a year or so ago, I was going to visit the borg collective*cough* I mean, family.  Thinking a flight to where I wanted to go was going to be pretty simple, I opted to grab a ticket and head on down.

Being the anally punctual person I am, I arrive a good time before my flight is scheduled to leave.  I would have been bored to tears, but thankfully, I remembered to bring a recently purchased (and unread) copy of The Road along with me to pass the time.  However, that plan kind of backfired, as I actually finished the book while waiting in the terminal.

Anyways, I get to the humiliation checkpoint, remove my belt, shoes, and dignity, only find out that my body has attained the superpower to magically set off metal detectors without any assistance on my part.  So, after multiple attempts to pass through, they take me a step or two aside to give me a few catholic blessings with a magic wand.  As this was transpiring, I see another TSA agent that was sifting through my box of crap, who suddenly freezes for a split second, then glares at me momentarily.  I began to think "what in the world did I do to deserve this honor?"  It didn't take long to find out, as he was approaching me and the agent wanding me down.  The approaching agent takes the one near me aside to discuss something in very excitedly hushed tones for a minute, then he confronts me and defiantly proclaims something to the effect of, "Just what do you think this is?

It took me a second to register that it was my car keys that he was dangling in front of me. I'm pretty sure I had a matter-of-fact tone as I replied, "my keys."
The agent then bluntly states, "I cannot let you take this" as he points to a particular key chain I have:

Now, mine wasn't in this nice of a condition.  It's seen over a decade of use, it's had the red plastic covers busted off for sometime, and the only thing that wasn't permanently jammed stuck on it was the bottle opener (which was what I mostly used it for anyways). 

So, I tell this to the agent (while kicking myself for not packing my keys), but of course he's been trained to see no reason or logic.  He gives me the standard lecture about either throwing it away or mailing it home.  I ask if there are any alternatives, and he tells me no.  I tried to illustrate, in less sarcastic words, that the worst I can do with this thing is maybe aggressively remove someone's fingernail grime.  However, as I explain this, I realize the agent I'm talking to has had his other hand on his tazer, fondling it for the entire conversation.  I gave him a look up and down and see that he's not only doing that but he's poised like he's about to quick draw me at the OK corral.  Despite my calm and nearly relaxed demeanor, the drama queen sternly warns me that if I continue resiting he'll have to call his supervisor and or subdue me.

Seeing that I was now gaining a small crowd, and holding up the line, I give up.  And with nearly a tear in my eye, I tell the worthless maggot of a man to throw it away.  I watch as the guy walks away and disappear with the first knife I ever bought with my own money.  The knife I bought from a kind neighbor at a garage sale, when I wasn't even a teenager yet.  The knife that has opened more Sangria bottles than I care to remember.  The knife I had taken with me on every single scouting trip.  The knife that accompanied my first set of car keys on my key-ring.  The knife that I had never left home without since I bought it.  The knife I had, in previous years, taken with me on other flights I went on.

The situation defused, the agents tell me to move along.  I spent the rest of my time at the airport more than a little annoyed and upset.  I sat in the terminal, finished my book, made a phone call or two, then boarded my flight.  By the time I landed, my mood still hadn't changed much.  I got home, slapped my stuff on the bed in the guest room, then proceeded to change.  That's when I found the source of my metal detector problems:

Yeah, that's the exact type of knife I had on me the entire friggin time.  I'm still kinda pissed and bitter that I had to throw away my swiss army key-chain, but seeing this come out of my pocket after the end of my flight put an evil grin on my face.  I was planning on making a formal complaint, but knowing I had this in my pocket the whole time, made me feel a little better.  So, the moral of the story?  I dunno.  One thing is for sure though, the TSA is nothing but a bunch of worthless sacks of crap.