Air Pockets

No entry yesterday due to Internet problems. On a regular day, that would've led me to storm my neighbor's apartment, thrash him fiercely, and then commandeer his cable modem, but I was sick yesterday and thus lacking the energy for any rascalism. As I have heard them say on the WB, "My bad, homediddlies!" You may now apologize profusely for any bags of flaming poop left on my front door.

Next week, as I previously said, I head up to California for work. This ought to be fun, as I imagine I'll spend most of my time hobnobbing with movie stars and winning surfing contests. One thing that won't be fun is going through airport security. While I understand that these people serve a vital function and we're all safer because of them, I don't understand why they continue to regard me as the deadliest man in aviation history. I am a short, pitiful white boy; the only person I endanger is myself. If I ever tried to punch anyone, I'd be so overcome with emotion, I'd probably begin to menstruate. And yet, while all of this is common knowledge, I continue to get the business every single time I go on a flight. These scoundrels never fail to make me step out of line, open up my bag, take off my shoes, and ultimately, weep for my mommy.

I expect next week's trip to be even worse, both because this entry will surely place me on some sort of terrorist watchlist and also because of an item in the bag I'll be checking. Without getting into too much nerdery, part of the reason I'm going on this trip is to test out a new device in the field. The hardware in question is essentially a gray box, which encloses a little circuit board that ticks constantly. While I can't vouch for the thoroughness of their training, I fully expect the security guards to look at this, look at me, and then proceed to riddle my body with bullets. I should just start giving my stuff away now.

My plan, as it stands, is to bring copious amounts of documentation, so that after I regain the ability to speak following the taser attack, the federal agents and I can have a good laugh, and then maybe I can get bumped up to first class. It's either that or smash this thing up with a hammer, swallow it, and then piece it back together when I land. No matter how fond my coworkers are of me, I don't see anyone volunteering to help on that job, so it's back to Plan A. If anyone sees me getting flogged and hogtied at the Austin airport next Tuesday, please throw me a Nutter Butter or something; it'll be the last treat I get for a while.