Where Reason Goes to Die

I really really hate the damn TSA. And O’Hare.
There, I got that out of the way.

I was at O’Hare on Sunday, catching a United flight back from my visit at Jim’s. We went to see Rush and it was suddenly 1987 again. But that’s another story.

Anyway, I arrived an hour and forty-five minutes early for my flight. No baggage to check, it didn’t seem unreasonable to chop fifteen minutes off the two-hour window “they” tell us we need at the airport. Turns out, for the first time, that “they” were right. Whoever they are, “they” must have written the rules while waiting at checkpoint 2 in the United terminal at ORD.

We (by we, I mean me and all the other cattle who don’t warrant the Special Status that gets a person through the Express Lane) all had the extreme pleasure of standing in a long-ass serpentine line just to get to the scanners. This alone took over an hour, during which I read a good portion of the paperback I was saving for the inevitable wait on the tarmac (this being O’Hare) and flight. The fun really began when we reached the end of the serpentine.

Yolanda stood there at the end serpentine, telling us sheep which scanner to go to. At this particular checkpoint, there are five scanner stations. The fucking geniuses that run that airport had two - yes, only two - of them open. On a Sunday afternoon. At O’Hare. Did I mention I hate O’Hare yet?

Now for some reason Yolanda and her sidekick, Betty Lou, weren’t distributing us to the strip search in anything that approached an even manner. No. To my right was a very short line, serving five travelers at a time. That’s all the TSA bozo on that station would take. The station to our left had 40…yes, FORTY…people waiting. I know, because I counted twice.

When I reached the end of the hellish serpentine, Yolanda waved desultorily at me to come on through. I took a couple of steps to the right, heading to the station with only two people waiting. She let me know in no uncertain terms that I was to head left to the looooong line. I gave her a little grief, which was met with a sneer. Look, Yolanda: I don’t give a shit if you hate your job and white people. Take the stick out of your ass and act professional.

While I stood there fuming along with the rest of the prisoners, I witnessed three women (who weren’t traveling together) point out to Betty Lou that they would be missing their flights because of the way the line was being handled. Betty Lou all but told them to go fuck themselves.

Anyway, I made it to my gate with about five minutes to spare. I’d hoped to grab a quick bite or relax for a few minutes before getting squeezed into the plane, but the TSA had other plans. A top-secret plan to see how many people they can piss off and how many people they can make miss their flights for No Reason Whatsoever.