tsa

"That's where she's going, too!"

Blog Written with a loving hand by kitt some time around 22:27 on 25 November 2012

On the way back to San Jose today, I, unsurprisingly, opted out of the people x-ray machine. While I was frustrated that the agent manning the baggage scanner pushed my items into the luggage x-ray machine after I said I was opting out, thereby not only taking my items from me, but also preventing me from objecting, I was less frustrated when the pat-down woman arrived and walked me between the x-ray machine and the metal detector to claim my bags before they had run through the machine.

The pat-down woman was very friendly, chatting amiably, as my two bags and three bins were collected. She and another woman tried to walk away before my backpack and its contraband deck of to-do cards had made their joy-run back through the x-ray machine, but I refused to move until all of my bags were together. Didn't help though, as the other TSA woman thought it was okay to place my computers in a full-access bin 15 feet away from me and out of my sight.

Unrelated to my forthcoming rant here, I would REALLY like if the TSA would stop fucking taking my belongings away from me and putting them in an easy-to-steal location outside of my view. Their continued disregard of travellers' possessions is incredibly frustrating.

As is their protection of travellers' personal information.

Or rather, lack of protection of travellers' personal information. Ah, here's the forthcoming rant.

My pat-down woman was, as mentioned, chatty. I have to admit that her willingness to talk about her day and her Thanksgiving festivities, as well as her general cheerfulness, allowed me to let down my guard. I told her about my holiday week, visiting with the parents, and where I was flying. It was a brilliant bit of customer service and social maneuvering, actually, as I didn't mind most of the pat-down, which was rougher than normal, but still remarkably ineffective for what it was attempting to accomplish.

After she was done (SHOCK! No residue on my clothes!), she went off to get the next woman who wisely declined the cancer machines. As I was standing in the spot putting my computers into my bag, tying my shoelaces, putting on my three layers of clothes, marvelling at just how amazingly stinky I was for having not showered in two days, the pat-down woman returned with the next opt-out.

"And where are you going today?" pat-down woman asked.

"I'm going to San Jose," was the response.

"Oh, that's where she's going, too!" pat-down woman continued cheerfully, pointing at me.

I turned, stunned, to look at this woman.

Okay, yes, I'm in a public place.

Okay, yes, when I'm standing in line to board a plane, it is obvious where I am going. Sorta. The plane I was on was going to San Jose, Portland and some place in Idaho, so you don't *really* know where I'm going.

Okay, yes, I volunteered that information willingly.

I don't, however, believe that having a TSA agent announce my destination or hand out personal information to other passengers is okay.

Without looking up to confirm it (and I probably should look it up), my understanding is that lying to a government official, even in something completely innocuous, carries up to a $20,000 fine. So, when the TSA agent casually asks, "Where are you going?" and you answer, Seattle when you're really going to Kansas City, if he's in a pissy mood and can prove the falsehood, there's a potentially hefty fine.

On the other hand, handing out personal information seems much worse.

Consider the completely fabricated case of a woman with an unusual name flying out of an airport as she is fleeing an abusive relationship. The TSA agent comments offhandedly, "Oh, there was someone with that name through here just a short bit ago, she's going to Atlanta," to the next person with the same unusual name. And now the area she's moving to is no longer as safe as it might have been.

Yeah, completely fabricated, I know. It isn't, however, the TSA agent's place to share that information, no matter how innocent. If she's sharing where I'm flying, how do I know she's not letting everyone know how firm my breasts are. She certainly rubbed them hard enough to know.

I think the next time I'm heading through, I'll be less likely to let down my guard with the pat-down woman. My answer to most questions is most likely now going to be, "Am I legally required to answer?" followed by a "Will you refuse my boarding if I decline to answer?"

When pressed, I'll probably have to answer, "Religious reasons."

How I made a TSA agent cry

Blog Instead of being asleep at 23:12 on 6 September 2011, kitt created this:

Okay, so, here's my tweet:

The short version of what happened:

The TSA agent goosed me with her thumb during an opt-out search, I jumped, she told me not to move, I retorted that she was not allowed to touch me there, a supervisor came over, I explained what happened, he observed the remaining opt-out, I criticized the TSA agent's technique and told her what she did wrong, she apologized and gave a lame excuse, I gathered my stuff, she came back and apologized again in tears, I left.

And here's the long version of what happened:

This is unedited for typos or grammar. The words used are approximations of what was said, as best I could remember them. If you get the video of this incident, send it to me, I'd love to lipread the exact words and update the post to match.

This morning, Kris dropped me off at San Jose International Airport for my flight to Chicago via San Diego. Everything that could go wrong, had started going wrong, from arriving 30 minutes past when I wanted to arrive at the airport (as I had bags to check), the check-in kiosk not printing out my pass (ignoring that they take two minutes on a good day to print out a single pass in the first place), to another passenger shipping wine through the express bag check causing a block that forced all of us to check bags through the long, main check-in line, to the security line being far longer and far slower than I had seen it in years. Frustratingly, they had only one guy checking IDs and they closed the metal detectors.

When I moved near the front, but not at the front, of the baggage x-ray screening line, my stuff in bins, my shoes off, my sweatshirt off and all, I told the woman manning the entrance that I was opting out. I did this well before I pushed my bags through because last time I didn't, my bags were both away from me and out of my sight for 12 minutes, and when I complained last time, I was told to inform the TSA person I was opting out before I pushed them through. Fine. I said I was opting out, she told me to push my bags through anyway, then called for a female assist.

I mentioned to her (let's call her TSAF1) that she just told me to push my bags through, yet I was separated from them, and this made me uncomfortable. She moved over, and offered the spot she was standing in, in front of the metal detector, so that I could have a full view of my bags. I thanked her, as I appreciated the gesture. I watched my bags, as she called again for another female assist.

Eventually, another woman TSA agent, let's call her TSAF2, came over, and motioned for me. TSAF1 went to move the webbing barrier in front of the metal detector. "Why are you bringing her in that way?" TSAF2 asked. "Because she's right here." "But my station is over there," TSAF2 responded, almost pointing to the X-Ray machine I specifically said I wasn't going through. TSAF1 to her credit said, "Her bags are over here," stepped to the side and motioned me through the metal detector.

As I went to step through, TSAF2 told me to remove my sunglasses, which were on top of my head, and put them through the x-ray screening.

Now, first of all, they are plastic. They aren't going to set off the metal detector. Second of all, people are not asked to remove their prescription glasses when they go through the metal detector. In a huff, I stepped to the side to put my glasses in a dish, put it on the belt, then stood outside the detector.

TSAF2 motioned me to come through.

I stood where I was. "My items are out here. I'll wait until they go through."

I stood there. TSAF2 motioned me again.

Now, the problem was that the belt wasn't moving because my items were in bins at the other end of the screening belt. They couldn't put anything else through, until I grabbed my stuff, but I couldn't grab my stuff until I went through the metal detector, and I wasn't going through the metal detector until all of my belongings were into the x-ray machine.

So, I stood there.

And thought, great, this is going to be another problem, and my flight is boarding in less than 20 minutes. Just great.

Eventually the owners of the other items on the screening belt made it through the people x-ray machine, and picked up their bins, giving room. My stuff moved a bin down, and the screener fired up the baggage x-rays, and my glasses went through.

[TSA people reading this post, THERE IS NO SECURITY DIFFERENCE BETWEEN SUNGLASSES ON A HEAD AND PRESCIPTION GLASSES ON A FACE. Insisting the glasses go through the x-ray machine when the person is going through a metal detector only gives the agent a power trip and a reason to be rude to the passenger.]

I stepped through, and WHAT DO YOU KNOW, NO ALARMS.

As I walked towards my stuff, she blocked me and asked which bins were mine. Yes, I know the drill, I sighed and pointed out the three bins with my stuff in them. She wasn't particularly careful with my items, which frustrated me, but at least she didn't try to carry everything herself.

She then pointed me towards the right and said, "Go that way."

I took a step then stopped. "That way" is too vague. She wanted me to go to her search station, but didn't tell me which was hers. She said, "Go ahead," and I took two more steps, and stopped. She said, "Ma'am, you need to go that way," to which I responded, "If I don't know where I'm going, having me lead isn't going to work."

She clued in and pointed towards the third station away from where I had gone through the metal detector.

The other guy carrying my stuff put down two of the bins with my stuff, TSAF2 put the bins she was carrying down next to them, and asked me if I knew about the opt-out process. Yes, I said, I always opt-out, I knew what was going on. So, you know that I'm going to touch you, yes, yes, I know. I'm going to touch you with the back of my hand. Yeah yeah. I'm going to feel up your thighs, yeah yeah. Did I have any limitations, no, I didn't, I then said, Thank you for explaining all of thing, while thinking just hurry up already.

So, she had me stand facing the wall, feet wide, arms out to my sides, palms up to ceiling.

I find facing a wall with hundreds of people behind my back to be vunerable. I don't like it. I don't like it at all.

I also didn't like being told my palms HAD TO BE facing up to the ceiling.

WTF? Who cares which direction your hands are facing? What, if someone's hands are facing down, they aren't going to find the explosives strapped to their wrists?

COME ON!

[TSA people reading this post, THERE IS NO FUNCTIONAL DIFFERENCE BETWEEN PALMS UP OR PALMS DOWN. Insisting on palms up just gives the agent a power trip and a reason to be rude to the passenger.]

She rubbed my shoulders and my arms, then went down my sides under my arms. When she was done, I halfway dropped my arms. She told me to lift my arms again while she reached around my lower back. My arms were not in any position to block her access to the areas she was checking. I lifted my arms again, and dropped them halfway again when she was rubbing down my back. She asked me to lift them again, then explained that unless there is some physical limitation, the arms are supposed to remain up.

Now, there are competitions to see who can hold their arms out straight, though they usually have a beer stein at the end of them, in their hands. It's not a position I practice frequently. My arms were tired, so I dropped them halfway, bending my elbows.

[TSA people reading this post, THERE IS NO FUNCTIONAL DIFFERENCE BETWEEN ARMS AT 90˚ AND ARMS HELD AWAY FROM THE BODY WITH ELBOWS BENT. Insisting on arms locked out at 90˚ just gives the agent a power trip and a reason to be rude to the passenger.]

Seriously, if I'm going to call this much attention to myself, and opt-out in the first place, the chances I'm planning on doing anything are exactly zero.

So, the agent moved to my legs, telling me what she was going to do, asking me to spread my legs farther apart. Okay, fine, I was already in a vulnerable position, what's a little more? I spread 'em, and she started rubbing my right leg from knee to crotch. She stopped quickly, and asked me to remove everything from my pockets, so I pulled my passport out of my back right pocket.

I came back, stood again, and she started at the top of my legs, went down, came back up my inner right leg.

And....

She goosed me.

She stuck her thumb into my cunt and I fucking jumped.

"Ma'am, you are not allowed to move."

I turned on her on that, anger rising up. "No, you are NOT allowed to touch me there. You just touched my vagina and you are not. allowed. to. do. that."

Okay, yes, I freely admit that in my shock, embarrassment, frustration, worry and anger, I forgot what the hell my girl parts are called. You let me know if I I need to turn in my girl card, right after someone else shoves her thumb up your hooch in front of a hundred people.

She immediately said no, she hadn't done this. I repeated that yes, she had, and she is not allowed to do that. Recovering only a little bit, I said, "You touched my clit and that is not okay."

YES, I KNOW, ALSO THE WRONG WORD. It worked.

"Okay, I can get a supervisor over here."

"Yes, let's do that. Look, I'm not trying to be difficult, but you are not allowed to touch my clit. Yes, get supervisor over here."

We didn't wait very long.

He came over, and just as she started explaining what was happening, I interrupted. "Look, she was going the patdown, when she went up, she touched my clit. That's not allowed. When I jumped, she told me not to move. When I told her what she had done, she denied it then called you over. Look, I'm not trying to be difficult, I just don't want her touching me there."

YES, I KNOW, she touched my labia and vulva and whatever, but she also went up far enough to go into the vaginal opening. I wasn't thinking clearly, there was some penetration, and I wanted the most offensive word I could think of so that the guy would listen to me. Yes, I know, I know. Offering girl-card again...

The supervisor offered a private room. As I don't give a rat's ass who sees me in public, and that includes even if I were naked, I didn't want a private room. I do care when people try to cover up objectionable actions by hiding it from the people who would also be outraged IF ONLY THEY KNEW ABOUT IT. I want everyone to know what's going on and I want them to care about the retarded, stupid charade about security that is going on. I want them to stop being fucking sheep and demand some change. Fuck.

Right.

I said no, and went back to standing with my legs too far apart, arms not really at 90˚, facing the wall, waiting for her to try again. She asked the supervisor to move from where he could see what she was doing, around to the left side of me where he couldn't see what she was doing, and started the lower body patdown again.

This time, she kept her thumbs where they belonged and put proper pressure on my legs. She went up my right leg, and touched the top of my leg close to my inner thigh and not in the middle of my crotch. She did the same for my left leg, then came around to the front.

When she reached for my waistband, I lifted up my shirt, and she grabbed it and pulled it back down. "You don't need to lift your shirt when I check your waistband," she said, as she reached down the inside of my pants. I find this one just as stupid because if I'm carrying anything, she'll be able to feel it on the outside and not reach down into my pants.

TSAF2 then asked me to sit down in a chair while she repeated the rub down on the lower parts of my legs. She didn't look at or touch the bottom of my feet, so I have no idea why the second search on my lower legs.

[TSA people reading this post, THERE IS NO FUNCTIONAL NEED TO GROPE THE SAME SPOT MULTIPLE TIMES. If the techniques you use aren't finding issues the first time, doing it multiple times isn't going to help, figure out a better technique. Multiple gropings just waste time, and give the agent a power trip and a reason to be rude to the passenger.]

She stepped away and said she was going to test her gloves, holding them up and moving to the sensor to my left. I looked at her, then said, "Okay, look, I'm going to give you feedback about your technique. The second time you did it, you did it fine. You kept a firm pressure on my legs this time. The first time you didn't, and you jammed your thumb too high, touching me where you weren't supposed to. Be sure you keep pressure on the leg and your thumbs in and you won't have people mad at you."

She looked at me and said, "Oh, it was probably my gloves that did it. They are too big," holding up her gloved hands. I looked at her and the flimsy gloves on her hand, and said, "No, probably not."

The supervisor looking at her gave her the same expression I'm sure I had on my face, "No, and that's the stupidest excuse I've ever heard."

The sensor went off, and, of course, it was negative, so she said, "Okay, you're free to go."

I looked at her for a big longer, so she pointed to my stuff and said, "You can take your stuff."

I turned away from her at that point, to put my shoes on, when she approached me from behind and apologized. I turned slightly to look at her, and she continued, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. I really want everyone to have a good experience. I don't even like doing these pat-downs. I'm sorry."

I continued to gather my stuff, putting on my shoes, shoving my laptop into my bag, followed by my utilities box, and putting on my sweatshirt. I said something like, yeah, well, it's a sucky job, isn't it, but not quite those words, and turned my back on her to continue dressing. She moved away and I continued dressing.

Eventually I had my sweatshirt and shoes on, and everything packed back up: my phone in my pocket, along with my passport and my boarding pass. I slung my backpack around to my back, feeling slightly uncomfortable with just one bag since I normally carry two, and turned to walk out of the area.

As I turned, she approached me again. She reached out, but didn't touch me, and said again, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that. I want people to have a good experience, you know. I'm sorry." She was crying, but not bawling, tears in her eyes. She was clearly upset, but, seriously, I didn't really care. She was the one who touched me inappropriately.

"Yeah, well, have a nice day," I said, and turned to leave. My thought as I pulled out my phone to tweet, however, was, "You shouldn't have apologized. It shows weakness."

While I regret that I didn't check for her nametag, and that of her supervisor, I suspect it wouldn't be hard to figure out who they are. I certainly fly Southwest enough that I suspect if she stays with the job, I'll see her again.

And if I do, I'll be sure to remind her to keep her thumbs in.

Of course, I'm also thinking of wearing just spandex shorts, a running bra and socks through the security farce next time, too.

Playing with the TSA

Blog Yeah, kitt finished writing this at 23:51 on 23 October 2007

On the way through the security line today, I pulled off my shoes, put them in the grey bin, removed my computer from the computer bag that is about 1/8" thick and doesn't really need to be separate from the computer, set all of my items down on the table, and waited for Kris to head through the line in front of me.

A few minutes before, we had entered the second line from the right, under instruction from a TSA guy with nothing better to do than direct people into the shortest lines, the lines they were already going to go to, even without his instructions. I muttered something about the waste of funds paying for the man's salary, as he was clearly not needed: people will gravitate to the shortest line without anyone directing them. Kris disagreed, stating the area would be mass chaos without the man's direction. The single, winding line feeds into four other lines, how much chaos could his absence produce? Better people figure it out on their own than have to deal with the man directing them to location they were already going, or attempt is misdirections as he did trying to get me into a different line than Kris was in.

As our stuff approached the x-ray machine, I pondered how much radiation the x-ray viewers were receiving. Would these people sue the government in twenty years for cancers caused by the endless hours of sitting next to blasting x-ray machines? Kinda hard to argue the knee cancer was caused by anything else.

Just as Kris was shoving his bag, which was really my bag, but who's counting, into the x-ray machine, the TSA agent leaned through the metal detector door with a loud, "Ma'am! Ma'am! You need to remove your sweatshirt."

I've been wanting to do this for a long time.

The point of the metal detector is to detect metal. Sure, I could be carrying a bottle of water somewhere in that mass of fleece, but I'm more likely to be wearing nothing than to be smuggling an illicit water bottle.

I knew if I didn't remove my sweatshirt, I'd have a pat down. I hate those pat downs. "I'm going to touch your breasts with the back of my hand. Will that be okay?" "Uh, do I really have a choice here?" "No." "Well, then, enjoy."

So, I removed my sweatshirt.

And waited in line in my bra.

Just after Kris went through the metal detector, an Asian man from a different line jumped up to enter the detector. He and a relation of his, couldn't tell if it were a young man or woman, attempted to pass through the detector immediately behind him, alarms blaring "METAL! METATL!". The TSA agent who had instructed me to remove my sweatshirt, noticed me standing behind him as he asked the two men to go back through the detector, removing all the metal from his pockets. He didn't really talk to them as much as he was talking to me, realizing I was standing behind them without a shirt on.

The Asian man's wife tried to push past the two of them to make it through the detector, but the TSA agent held her back and gestured for me to come through the detector. I walked through, and was reaching for my sweatshirt on the other side, when he stopped the next person coming through the detector and turned to me. "Ma'am? Ma'am? Next time a TSA asks you to do something, if you don't feel comfortable with it, you can decline."

Yeah, right, I thought. Have you actually been through these lines?

He, continued, however, and apologized for asking me to remove my sweatshirt.

Kris, at this point, turned around from gathering up his bag, and realized I had not shirt on. I'm not sure if he was humoured by the bare wife behind him, but my suppressed laughter put him at ease.

On went my sweatshirt as I pondered going through bare breasted next time.

Enjoy the hummus!

Blog Instead of being asleep at 23:38 on 30 January 2007, kitt created this:

I rarely sign my credit cards. Instead, I'll write "See License" or "See ID" on the back of the cards, requesting the clerk to visually compare the signature on the receipt to the signature on the identification, and the photo on the ID to the face smiling back at them. I figure, if I can duplicate someone else's signature as easily as I can, someone else can forge mine just as easily, and I want that visual identity check to happen if I'm going to be held financially responsible for a transaction.

It worked for a long while, maybe ten years. I was asked for identification for maybe 90% of the time. I had even called the various credit card companies to confirm this practice was okay. With most of them, at the time, it was.

About three or four years ago (those years are all a blur now, if only I'd be journalling then!), I went into a Best Buy to purchase something or other, and went to pay by credit card. The clerk refused to accept my credit card unless it was signed on the back. The card with "See License" on the back and my driver's license wasn't good enough, the card had to be signed. The store had recently issued the refusal policy, and all the clerks were adamantly adhering to it.

So, I asked, "If I sign the card right here in front of you, will you accept it?"

When the clerk answered, "Yes," I told her to cancel the transaction, I would never be purchasing anything from any store with such a stupid policy, cancel the transaction.

The sale wasn't small. It was around $400, maybe $500. She was shocked. Why was I cancelling the transaction?

The card was no more legitimate with my signature as it was without it, if I had stolen it, I told her. My signature which I signed right there in front of her would match the signature of the receipt I signed right there in front of her, because I was signing both at the same time. I refused to be party to such an idiotic policy that stated my signing a potentially stolen card made the card valid, when requesting you check my signature on the receipt to government issued identification wasn't valid. I then went on to tell her I would stand her, blocking her check-out lane until she cancelled that transaction, lest she run it through, charge my card, and keep the merchandise for herself.

She looked at me stunned for a few moments, then turned, and cancelled the transaction. I think my parting, "Have a nice day!" ruined the rest of her evening.

This memory came to mind today when I was heading through the security line at the Boston airport. As I approached the line, I had suddenly realized that this was the origination airport of the 9/11 flights, and this was most likely one of the terminals and security checkpoints, as I was flying out on United. The hard-fought conquer of my long-seated fear of flying suddenly felt quite temporary.

At that point, I shut down as many emotions as I could, and walked to the end of the security line. Tuesday afternoons aren't very crowded in any airports, I would guess, and today was no exception. One hop, one skip, and one shoe-removing jump later, I was on the other side of the security waiting for my bag to come through the x-ray machine.

The screener asked to put it through again, and I shrugged my shoulders, sure. Back through it went, one time, two times. "If you tell me what you're looking for, I'll open the bag up and hand it to you to look at," I offered.

They glared at me in return.

Eventually, they gave up trying to figure out what the problem item was, and asked to open bag, pulling out my Pelican travel kit, my Apple Airport Express, my United snack box from the flight out, my retainer case, and a pair of my underwear for yet another trip through the x-ray machine.

Kitt's travel tip #32: always carry a pair of clean underwear on the plane with you. If your flight is diverted, and you have to stay the night somewhere unexpected, you can wear the same socks, you can wear the same pants, you can wear the same shirt. However, wearing the same underwear is just gross - pack an extra pair.

When I packed that pair, I honestly wasn't expecting it to be contraband.

It wasn't even a lacy pair: they were plain, cotton, red, bikini-cut undies.

Fortunately, they were clean.

So back through the x-ray machine went my assortment of items, and back out they came, with the United snack box being the source of the offending item. The TSA guy pulled it out of the box, and asked what was in it. I answered, "I honestly don't know, I purchased it on the flight out, and figured if United gave it to me on the plane, it contained nothing of any security threat. Do you know what's in it? Did the x-ray show you?"

He wasn't humoured and opened the box.

Well, tried to open the box. He couldn't get the plastic seal off the box in any timely, graceful way, eventually putting it up to his mouth to plastic to initiate a tear, pulling the plastic off, pulling the box pull-tab and opening the box. He then pulled out a small bottle, and told me it couldn't go on the plane.

I looked at it in his hand, then took it from him to see what it was. At the moment I snatched the jar from his hand, I had images of another flight years ago when a TSA agent refused to let me have back what I accidently had left in a bag, and Kris' unwillingness to help me at that incident and his insistence I "not make a scene" almost ended our relationship. I refuse to allow another person make me feel as powerless as I did at that moment, one by fake power, the other by embarrassment.

The TSA agent in front of me seemed flustered that I had grabbed the jar from him, but he waited as I looked at the label, and handed it back to him. It was a two ounce jar of hummus.

As anyone who knows me would predict, I asked him, "It's a two ounce jar. Why can't I take it on the plane?"

His answer was less than satisfactory. "Because you can't."

"Why can't I?"

"Because you can't."

"It's two ounces. It's less than the three ounces all of the regulations state are allowed. Why not?"

Now, I'm standing there with all of the rest of my stuff. In one bag I have, undeclared, a 4 ounce container of apple sauce that went through not only this security screening, but TWO of them went through the San Jose security screening four days ago. In the other bag, I have, once again undeclared, two packets of energy GEL (you know, of the liquid and gel prohibition), twelve containers full of saline solution, a container of lip balm gel, and two ounces of sunscreen. All of this is undeclared. All of this is packed deep in my backpack or on top of my computer bag. All of this the first TSA agent has seen and RECOGNIZED, as he paused when he took the items out of my bag, and looked at them intently.

He didn't pull out any of these items. He didn't confiscate any of these items. But the two ounce jar? The TWO ounce jar of humus? It can't go on the flight.

"Uh... you can't... He'll explain it," he answered, and walked over to the shift leader. "Explain why she can't take this one the plane," he requested, handing the shift leader the two ounce jar of hummus.

The shift leader looked at it, looked up, and automatically said, "You can't take this on the plane."

"Now wait a second, here's what happened." I explained the box, and stopped him from interupting me several times until my story was done, and finished, "It's a two ounce jar of hummus, why can't it go on the plane when it's clearly less than the three ounces stated?"

"Was it in a plastic bag?"

"No."

"It can't go on because you didn't declare it."

"Because I didn't declare it by putting it in a plastic bag?"

"Right. If you don't declare it, we don't trust you, and you can't take it on the plane."

"You're serious?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"So, if I put it in a plastic bag...."

"You have a plastic bag?"

"Yes, I have a plastic bag," thinking, duh, what kind of an idiot do you think I am? I have five plastic bags because other people will be caught in the evil TSA frackin' RETARDED WEB OF STUPID POWER TRIPS TO ANNOY ALL OF US rules and need the bags for help. Oh wait, you think I'm of the TSA idiot kind. "If I put the jar in a plastic bag right now, and walked out that way, and came back in through the x-ray machine right now, you'd let me take it on the plane."

"Yes, ma'am."

Exasperated, "Really?"

"Yes, ma'am."

I was stunned.

I turned around and walked away, calling cheerfully over my shoulder, "Enjoy the hummus!"