Sunday, August 30, 2009

Space Law

A favorite activity of mine when at a party is to find someone who seems to be either really drunk, dumb, or a combination of the two and start lying to them. There are two ways to go about doing this. I either go the completely ridiculous route or I actually try to convince them of something.

Ridiculous route:

I was leaving a bar the other night and a guy asked me which type of law I practiced. This may seem like a strange question, but I was hanging out with a group of law students so he figured that I was part of their club too. I mean, why would law students hang out with someone that isn’t in law school? That just doesn’t make sense.

Prior to being asked this question I had decided that I didn’t like this guy. He made some sweeping statements towards our table and I had him blacklisted basically right from the start. This includes calling him an asshole to his face, which is why I was surprised when he inquired about my specialty in law.

“Superheroes and monsters,” I told him.


“Superheroes and monsters. I represent superheroes and monsters.”

“Ha ha ha, c’mon man. Really.”

“Superheroes get in trouble a lot in comic books and I have to bail them out. It’s a necessary service.”

I walked away and caught up with my friends.

“That guy was an asshole, right?” I asked.

They all agreed.

Convincing route:

I attended another law school get-together a couple of nights ago. It was a get-to-know-ya engagement for all of the new students that started class last week. It was decided early on that if the question of what kind of law I practiced came up that the answer would be a lie.

The night got fairly far along before the question was finally posed. Again, I had decided that the questioner was a dumbass so I didn’t feel bad about lying to him.

“Space law.”

“What, really?”

“Yeah. There’s going to be a big to-do about the plots of land on the moon soon and I want to be at the forefront of that scene.”

He thought for a moment. Not about how plausible this scenario was, but how awesome it was. It didn’t take him long to decide it was top-notch cool.

“That is AWESOME!” he told me with a giant grin on his face before slapping me a pretty hardcore high five. He seemed genuinely excited about me working in space. I then decided to stop hating him and downgrade to just being annoyed by him. He meant well.

My favorite party lie came out a few years ago. I was sitting in a garage at my friend’s house in Appleton when I decided that the girl across me from wasn’t too bright. I decided to convince her that I was born in Africa.

We did the usual introduction questions: “What is your name?” “Where are you from?”

“Zambia,” I told her.

She looked at me as if I had spoken to her in tones instead of words.

“What? That’s not even a country,” she said.

“Yes it is. It’s in southern Africa. That’s where I was born before moving to Canada and finally here.”

“Yeah right. You’re not African.”

“I sure am.” No smile. No hint that I was making this up as I went along. The first rule in selling a ridiculous lie is to believe it yourself. As George Costanza said, “It’s not a lie if you believe it’s true.”

“But you’re not black,” she said.

I ignored this brief venture into rationality.

“And you know what? The crazy thing about moving to a different country is all the small things that you don’t think about.” Sell it with small, specific details. “Like traffic for instance. People drive in a completely different manner here than they do in Zambia.”

She looked at me for a moment with skeptical eyes, arms crossed. Her stern posture began to soften as I looked back at her with a confident demeanor as if I had just solved a math equation for her and was sure if it’s validity.

She finally leaned forward and said, “Wow, that’s so cool.”

It was at this point a friend of mine walked into the garage. She looked at him and said, “Hey, did you know this guy’s from Africa?”

He looked over at me and said, “What? Josh? No he’s not!”

I laughed and the girl walked away, defeated.

Monday, August 24, 2009

Lady Gaga

I wrote a little deal about Lady Gaga's song, "Love Game." It didn't make it onto the site it was written for so I figured I might as well just plop it in here.

Here ya go:

There’s no mistaking this song is about sex. There’s no way to twist the words to find another meaning, no way to be led in any other direction than the bedroom. You don’t need to go any further than the first line to figure it out.

“Let’s have some fun, this beat is sick
I want to take a ride on your disco stick.”

Yeah, that’s right. She says “disco stick.” Now, you might be able to make the case that a disco stick could mean something as harmless as a stripper pole, but that’s not the case. We all know she’s talking about grinding on somebody until she comes in her pants. I know, I don’t like it any more than you.

Songs celebrating women’s sexuality is nothing new. I think everyone remembers Khia’s hit in 2002, “My Neck, My Back,” not to mention Madonna, Lil’ Kim, and Trina. It’s songs like this that female artists put out to try to take sexuality back into their hands. “No longer will we let men be the only ones that can be whores and have it be perfectly acceptable,” seems to be their battle cry. Another example from "Love Game":

“I’m educated in sex, yes,
And now I want it bad, want it bad.”

I’m all for women to be treated as equals, dropping the double standards and treating people like people, but this is a step in the wrong direction. Misogynistic songs have been around for so long that people don’t even take notice. This doesn’t mean it’s okay. Racism has been around for a while too and may be accepted by some (I’m looking at you, the south) but that doesn’t make it right.

Women making songs like "Love Game" are following a trend that shouldn’t be followed. The only thing that will come from it is that the misogynists that either make songs like this or simply enjoy this song are only going to subjugate women even more because women are voluntarily jumping into the roles the men ask of them.

Aside from the misplaced feminism of Lady Gaga’s hit song, another thing hit me when I was listening to it. This is not a new revelation since I have it almost every time I turn on the radio, but, the song is horrible. I mean, really bad. Dangerously bad. Suck-out-your-brain-and-make-you-dumb-like-The-Riddler’s-machine-in-Batman-Forever kind of bad.

Lady Gaga should be arrested and all of her fans euthanized.

Monday, August 17, 2009

Drinking can turn you into a detective.

It’s quite an experience to wake up lost. No idea where you are or how you had gotten there. It sets you up for a full day of solving mysteries. This is the trick I pulled yesterday.

I woke up on the floor. When I sat up and looked around, I said “I have no idea where I am.” I began running through the events of the previous day, looking for any clues as to how I may have ended up on a random floor.

My apartment complex threw a “community event” at the pool in the afternoon. This included a large quantity of free hotdogs, chips, soda, DIY ice cream sundaes, and a DJ. We sat by the pool enjoying all the free stuff when the competitions began.

I didn’t particularly want to join the bout of musical chairs, but they were short a few people so I joined. After a lengthy battle I was the sole person sitting in a chair when the music stopped which won me a ten dollar gift card to a restaurant. Cool.

Almost immediately after that, the cannonball contest started. This is when the training Ted and I had done all summer came in handy. People performed the textbook cannonballs while being scored on a one-to-ten basis. They had some good looking cannonballs but they didn’t know what they were in for when it was my turn. I performed a running backflip cannonball which secured me a twenty-five dollar gift card to a different restaurant.

Next up was the bellyflop contest. Ted decided to join this one so I knew I would have some competition. It was set up for three rounds. We easily made it into the second round and then into the third round. The final round was simply between Ted and I. We knew that no matter what we were both going to be using that card so we didn’t really care who won. It was all for bragging rights. Ted did a 360 Christ Air belly flop. As I tried to come up with a flop to beat his I went blank. I had no idea what to do so I just jumped in while grabbing my ankles behind my back. I was hoping for splash points but I guess I didn’t get enough. Ted walked away with the fifty dollar gift card.

We walked up to the DJ afterwards to claim our prizes. The person who set up the event walked up to us and thanked us for entertaining the pool. Seriously. Then a girl came up to me and told me I was her hero.

We got our cards and continued hanging out by the pool. I found a crew of super nice gay dudes that were more than willing to fill beer bongs for races. I hung out with them for a while, bonging beer, before we finally called it a day on the pool.

We went inside and I think this is where my trouble started. Events start getting foggy around this point in time. The majority of the rest of the story was told to me the next day by my friends. It goes like this:

We went to a party at one of Ted’s friends. I had never met the guy before and I bet if I meet him again it will be the first time all over again. I met a girl at the party who had a shirt that kind of looked like a doily. Thus, she was dubbed “doily” for the rest of the night. I introduced myself and asked her if we had met before. “Maybe once or twice,” she responded. After I walked away, however, doily told my friend that she and I had met about five times. Whoops.

I was introduced to another guy at the party. “So your name is [insert name]? You wanna have a handstand contest?” He looked at me as if I had guessed the name of the street he grew up on before starting to laugh. I was making a really good impression on everyone that night.

We then left the party to meet another friend at a bar. Somehow I managed to pick a girl up immediately and hung out with her for the night. I’m really curious as to how I could have been anywhere close to smooth since I had been blacked out for a good two hours by that point.

Bar close came up and my friends were heading home. I was still talking to the girl and Ted decided that he would help me out by saying, “Alright, we’re gonna go. You two have fun,” thus basically making me go home with her. I’m guessing she and I took a taxi to her house and I’m guessing I fell asleep on her floor as soon as I got there.

This is how I ended up on a floor without knowing how it happened or where I was. Keep in mind I didn’t figure any of this out until Ted finally picked me up around noon the next day. This is also when I learned that my friend stole a Waffle House shirt from a guy. Now, when I say she stole a shirt from a guy, I don’t mean that she went into his closet and took it, or saw it lying on the floor, she walked up to him and ripped it off of his back. This is the shirt she wore when we went to Waffle House for breakfast after I got out of the mystery house.

Also, I just spoke with a friend of mine while writing this. She told me that I called her while going from the party to the bar and I told her that we were going to go swimming and that she needed to bring burritos.

When Ted and Diane (the Waffle House girl) got back to our apartment after leaving me with some girl, he realized that he didn’t have his house key. This meant only one thing: Ted had to break in. He hopped two fences and broke out the screen from a window and was inside in no time. It’s kind of scary to know how easy it is to break into our house. No more leaving the windows open when we leave.

All in all it was a pretty successful day. When I finally got home I checked my bank account on the internet. I was horrified that I had opened a tab at the bar or paid for the cab ride to the mystery girl’s house. I know I’m broke and can’t afford these things, but blackout-Josh knows nothing of the sort. Luckily, I made it through the night without spending a dime. I’m still pretty curious as to what that girl’s name is, though.

Saturday, August 15, 2009

I Exploded a Cockroach

One of the first things I heard before moving to Atlanta was to watch out for cockroaches. People made it seem like there were roaming packs of renegade roaches that would pounce and you and eat your eyeballs.

Luckily, this is not the case. I see cockroaches fairly frequently, but usually outside and not in large numbers. I normally see them on the sidewalk, skittering away from me like I’m the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.

The apartment I live in is usually kept pretty clean and before today I had only seen one cockroach. Before today.

I saw it run towards the kitchen and immediately got tough. “Oh you little fucker,” I said, trying to intimidate the insect. I grabbed a square of paper towel as a weapon. I paused and went back for another, it could get messy.

I stood above the little guy, who was relaxing next to the wall. I looked down on him and over to the paper towel in my hand. I inspected his exoskeleton and decided a couple thin sheets of paper wouldn’t provide me with the protection I felt I deserved. I looked to my right and saw a sandal on the floor.

I grabbed it and wasted no time going after my target. It started to run so I slapped it without mercy. Once I hit it, pieces of the cockroach and various goos shot out from under the sandal. My tough demeanor immediately dissipated and I squealed like a little girl. It was disgusting. I picked up the sandal and saw the cockroach in a pile of its own innards with the nerves in one of its remaining legs twitching. It was like a scene from a horror movie.

The fact that this grossed me out is a little funny when compared to my cockroach holocaust by the pool a few weeks ago. I had been drinking and decided that I would be the savior of the pool and annihilate as many cockroaches as possible. This involved lunging handslaps from within the pool and karate chops when out of the pool.

It was a hell of a lot more gross than my encounter today, but I didn’t mind. Maybe it was the fact that it was nighttime and I didn’t see the guts and carnage my attacks brought forth. Or maybe it was the beer.

Whatever the case, that cockroach today was fucking disgusting. I don’t think I’ll go into the kitchen for a while.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

I'm an idiot.

It’s not a secret. If we’ve known each other for a week you know it. If we’ve only talked a few times I may be able to fool you, but that won’t last long. Concrete evidence of this fact: I locked my keys in my car today.

I turned off my car and sat in the driver’s seat for a moment, reading a book. I showed up to an appointment early so I figured I’d kill some time.

“Hmm, this car’s a little warm. Maybe I’ll sit outside and read while I wait.”

Processing that one thought in my mind completely eliminated the fact that I hadn’t taken the keys out of the ignition. I opened the car door and stood there, with the door open, rolling up my window. This afforded me about five extra seconds to think about my keys.

It’s a little surprising that I didn’t since I have a long-standing distrust of pockets and my ability to have all necessary instruments for my day. I’m constantly patting my pocket to make sure my phone is there. Or slapping my own ass to make sure my wallet is secured. This is why I keep my keys on a clip attached to my pants. It’s not a fashion statement. It’s because I don’t trust my pockets or myself to hold onto them.

After rolling up the window I began closing the door. I thought about how I hoped it wouldn’t rain before I got home. I thought about how nice it was that it wasn’t two hundred degrees outside like it has been lately. I probably thought about a sandwich too but I definitely didn’t think about where my keys were.

Before I moved to Atlanta I worked as a pizza delivery driver. During my time at this job I grew a habit of opening my door and locking it in a continuous motion. I do it every time I open the door as a reflex since I had to do it a hundred times every shift. I guess my hands trust society less than my mind trusts pockets.

The car door closed and I immediately knew what happened. I froze. My mouth began forming curse words before I even checked my empty back pocket for my keys. I pressed my face against the window like I was trying to lick it and saw my keys dangling from the ignition.

This set off a momentary fit.

I immediately thought of the last time this happened to me. I was on a delivery for the pizza place. I had only to run up to the house and drop off some soda so I left the car running.

“This will only take a second,” I thought. “No need to even turn off the car.” However, when I stepped out, my distrustful reflex locked my door for me and I was screwed. Not only were my keys locked in, but the car was also running.

I called my roommate to bring the extra set but he was a half hour out of town. I had to wait by my car, which was parked in the middle of the road, without a hat or gloves in the middle of January in Milwaukee. I believe it was negative ten degrees Fahrenheit that day. It also didn’t help that there was a sign on top of my car that drew more attention and might as well have read, “Hey everybody! This guy here is a fucking idiot!”

I proved my stupidity today but it could have been worse. My roommate brought my keys to me with a smile on his face so I didn’t need to worry about that. At least this time I didn’t freeze my ass off while my car ran in the middle of the street.

Saturday, August 8, 2009

I got a job the other day.

I have officially quit my job. And when I say quit, I mean I am just not going back. This week I had two days of orientation and one day of one-the-job training. What is the wonderful job I was able to get? Meat salesman. Door-to-door meat salesman. Yeah.

I showed up at The Cattle Exchange at 8:30 in the morning. We were supposed to be there by nine so we could start heading out with other drivers. Of course, we had to sit around and listen to more pointless motivational speeches until people were ready to finally leave. There were about thirty people in the class and we were getting pulled out one by one. Drivers were leaving pretty slowly so it was taking some time to get people out to train.

Eventually, a few of us just stood outside in hope of getting picked simply because we were in their line of sight. This worked out perfectly for me.

A tall, thin guy named Tim came up to me and said, “Hey, do you have a license?”


“Alright, let’s go.”

And I was off. I was lucky to be standing where I was because I’m sure everybody didn’t get the opportunity to go out and train. This would mean I would be at the store again today waiting to decide that I hated selling steak door-to-door. I’m almost positive a handful of people had to sit in that stinky, hot room for a few hours after I left until they were told it just wasn’t going to happen for them that day. I would have been livid, as I’m sure the rest of them were.

The company gives you a truck with a freezer on the back and you cruise around looking for people who like steak. That’s the job. The van Tim and I were assigned, however, didn’t have a freezer so we had to take one off of another truck and put it in ours. Not only was the freezer missing a part of the lid, but it wouldn’t stay closed. As you can imagine, this doesn’t help in keeping the frozen meat frozen for long. Our method of fixing this problem: Cinder block on top of the freezer door.

This meant that every time I had to quickly decelerate, the block would slide towards us and fly off of the freezer. If I hadn’t been paying attention it very well could have cracked one of us on the back of the head as the freezer was right behind our seats.

After we got everything loaded up we cruised to the area around my house. We hit Boulevard, which is known to be a bit on the shady side, and he starts yelling out of the window.

“Hey man! I got steak at ‘hood prices! Three dollars a cut!”

Normally, this might make me a little nervous, as he said he was making a point to look for “dopers.” However, Tim’s a black dude and I felt like I had a permission slip to be there.

After cruising around for a while and not making any sales, we decide to head north to Gwinnett where Tim had a client. We arrived to find that he couldn’t get a hold of him/her.

“It’s cool man, we’ll just get a couple of beers and head to my sister’s house.”

We headed to a gas station where Tim jumped out. “What kind of beer do you like?”

“I don’t care, whatever.”

“Malt liquor?”


“Really?” He says this as if he’s never seen a white person drink malt liquor.


He smiles, gets a little spring in his step and runs into the gas station. He returns with two 24 oz. cans of Crazy Horse Malt Liquor. We drive to his sister’s house and sit on her porch, drinking our beers.

Now, I know that the black community will often refer to each other as “brother” or “sister” even though they have no real familial relations. However, I thought these two were actually related. So when we were on Nelly’s porch, and Tim walked inside, I asked her, “So you’re Tim’s sister?”

This is when I learned they weren’t actually related. Stupid white boy.

This is also where I learned that if I need strippers for a party or if I want a “Hollywood caliber” girl to spend the night at my house all I have to do is holla at Tim.

We left after our beers and started looking for people to hock some meat to. As we were driving, Tim got a phone call. Well, actually, I got a phone call since he doesn’t have a cell phone.

“Hey, man, we gotta swing back for a minute. I gotta pick something up.”

This is when he decided to pull a five dollar bill out of his pocket and hand it to me. He felt bad that we hadn’t sold anything yet that day, but he assured me it would happen.

We drove back and he ran into the apartment. Fifteen minutes later he came back with an Icehouse 24 oz. can and jumped in the van. He offered some to me, but I politely declined. Drinking a beer on the porch is one thing, but drinking one while driving down the street in a company car is something totally different.

Icehouse in hand, Tim tries to sell to a car next to us at a stop light. He sees them laughing in their car, windows rolled up and says, “Hey, I wanna laugh too!” He eventually gets the woman to roll down her window and he starts talking to her. Not about the meat we were selling but random, everyday stuff. You have to set up some rapport before you try to rape them on meat prices.

This woman thinks Tim is trying to hit on her or something and gets pissed. The man sitting in the passenger seat of her car leans forward and stares at us as if he’s trying to burn holes in our faces with his eyes. This goes on until the woman finally says, “You want me to call the cops? Ima call the cops.”

The light turns green and we drive away, laughing. What could she possibly have called the police on us for besides the open can of beer that she knew nothing about.

We continued to drive around, knocking on doors, bothering people at gas stations, and we didn’t sell anything. The only productive part of the day was when I was walking back to the van after being told to go fuck myself and a little fat white kid came up to me. He was probably six years old and had red stains around his mouth, possibly from a popsicle.

“Can you fix my bike?” he asked me.

“I can try, let me see.” I flipped the bike over and saw the chain had fallen off. After a few minutes of messing with it I was finally able to get it back on. “There you go,” I said as I flipped it back over.

He smiled and hopped right on it. Cruising in circles and popping wheelies. I watched him for a little bit and talked to his friends before Tim came back and we drove on down the road. I usually don’t like hanging out with kids too much but talking to these kids made me feel really good. As we were driving away one kid ran next to the van and tried to race us. He got up to fifteen miles per hour. Not bad, little guy.

As the day went on, my sales pitch began to evolve. At first, I did it the exact way they taught us to do it in orientation. That didn’t work. I then tried to work the familiarity aspect and adopted a southern accent.

“How y’all doin’ today?”

That didn’t work either. Eventually I realized how I wouldn’t be doing the job after that one shift so I switched to survival mode. I would walk to people’s houses, trying to pick ones that looked as if the owners were gone, and give them my new pitch.

“Hey, my name is Josh. I’m selling wholesale steak, chicken and fish.” No bullshit. No sales pitch. Just the facts. I have this. Do you want it? No? Cool, have a good day.

We didn’t sell anything all day, meaning that we had a lot of product slowly thawing out in our shitty cooler. The sun was going down and Tim wanted to just get the food out of the van.

“Alright, we gotta find the ‘hood. We gotta unload these boxes.”

I guess he figured he could sell the boxes easily in an area of lower-class black people. Something tells me he’s done it before.

We end up not finding the black folk and head back to the store. We first stop at a motorcycle shop where his brother, his actual brother, works. We hung out and I talked to some of the guys that were standing by their bikes. People were drinking 40’s still in the plastic bag and smashing them on the ground when they were done. There was a pitbull chained in the bed of a truck, which ended up being a really nice dog. It was pretty “hood.”

We left there and returned the van, tucking our tails between our legs as they counted up the remaning boxes from our day.

After all of this I have made five dollars. That makes the hourly rate for the number of hours I was there around twenty cents an hour. Awesome.

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

9/11 and Hitler

So here are my dreams last night:

First up, 9/11.

I ran out of building two with the other firefighters and began walking down the street. I talked to some passersby as we witnessed five planes hit some random building.

“I don’t remember that happening,” I told them.

“You don’t remember?” a lady asked.

“Yeah, I’m actually, um, from the future.”

“Great, tell us how to get out of here!”

I first bet the woman two thousand dollars that the buildings would fall. She agreed. What a dumbass, I just told her I came from the future. We then start running down the street, since I knew the buildings would envelop the city in that horrible ash and debris.

We made it to a restaurant and barricaded ourselves in a stall in the men’s bathroom. We figured there were no windows so we would be safe. However, since we weren’t running from a tornado, simply being indoors would have been good enough.

I decided to go back outside to see what was happening. This is when two dudes on motorcycles showed up and brought me back to ground zero against my will. I guess they figured “fuck you” for no reason. Thanks assholes.

The buildings began to tumble and I had to outrun the cloud that was eating the city. This wasn’t too bad though, I simple flew away to safety.

Next, the Holocaust.

I was in a snowy climate with my family and friends. We were forced to walk around, some of us without coats or shoes. I’m not exactly sure what we were looking for. The guards gave us a lot of room but not enough to actually get away. They probably had barbed wire fences set up somewhere, those Nazis were pretty thorough.

After returning from this walk, keep in mind I was with a guy I’ve known since preschool and my family, we were made to sit in a theater type room. We watched a movie but the real excitement didn’t come until after the film was over.

Hitler came out. Let me rephrase this. Alien Hitler came out. He basically looked like a pile of spilled jelly that could walk. No face, no arms, no uniform. Just a purplish blob that we all knew to be Hitler.

The concentration camp we were in does this every night. They fill a theater with people and wait for Hitler to show up to decide if he will pull the lever or not. What does the lever do? It opens the floor to expose lava before the seats lean forward and dunk everybody in. But before this happens, we get an intermission.

We all walk into the lobby and discuss out chances.

“Do you think he’ll do it tonight?” I ask my brother.

“He’s been going nuts lately. He dunked everyone the last two nights.” I guess he was there but somehow didn’t die.

“Alright then, we gotta just run.”

“But they’ll shoot us!”

“I’d rather be shot than be slowly dipped into lava!”

This is where the dream ended. I’m guessing that we all got out safely and killed Hitler with a flying karate kick/chop combination. I mean, how else are you going to kill Alien Hitler?

I woke up at this point but was still drowsy. I was in that state that you don’t really know where you are. This is why I still thought I was going to have to face the lava. I literally lay in bed thinking how I was going to get away from the Nazis.

I then had to convince myself that I wasn’t in a concentration camp. I believe this involved sitting up and looking at my phone.

“They don’t allow phones in concentration camps!”

Monday, August 3, 2009

A Matter of Social Security

Earlier today I went to the Social Security office in Downtown Atlanta. The office is housed in the Peachtree-Summit Federal Building that contains other government-type offices. Because of this, the security for the building is fairly heavy.

As is required in airports, visitors have to walk through a metal detector before entering. Before you get to go through this however, you need to sign in. This is where I met the coolest guy of the day.

“Step over here to sign in and get out your IDs,” he said, standing perfectly straight. This man is probably in his late 20’s and seems to be really excited to hold a position of, albeit minor, power.

“I left my ID in my car,” a woman said as I held my driver’s license in front of me like a child offering oats to a horse.

“You what?” He couldn’t believe she didn’t bring her ID in order to enter the building. Hadn’t she ever been to a grocery store, bank, or a friend’s house where you are also required to have picture identification to enter?

“It’s in my car.”

“Well here’s what I’m going to do,” he leans over the table, placing his arms a few inches from my outstretched hand containing exactly what he wanted. However, someone was challenging his power now. He had more important matters to attend to. “I’ll let you go through if you promise to wait afterwards. I don’t want you to take off to the 26th floor without my knowing. You know why?”

The woman stared at him with an indignant look on her face. She obviously wasn’t impressed by his ironed shirt and fifty cent badge.

“You know why?” he reiterated. “Because I’m going to find you.” A slight smile grows across his face as he imagines how great it would be to take down a evil-doer. First I’m going to yell halt, then I’ll run up to her telling her not to move. I’ll tackle her and handcuff, wait, I mean tie her hands with this piece of plastic while everyone around me cheers and the women try to kiss me. I will walk on, though, the bad guy needs to be incarcerated.

At this point I look around me to see if anyone else is witnessing this idiot. There’s an elderly couple to my right which are not laughing or looking around for “wtf” eye-contact like I am. They either buy this man’s tough-talk or are too polite to laugh at his face. I, however, am neither of these. I grin as I watch the security guard puff his chest and bathe in his own self-importance.

“Just sign your name over here, show your ID, and head through there,” he says, pointing to the metal detector. The woman from before starts walking towards the metal detector. “No! Not you! You need an ID!” I thought he told her before that she could go through without him, but his convoluted directions seemed to have confused even himself. The girl laughs as she walks back to where she was standing before.

After holding my ID out to the man for a few minutes he finally takes it and tells me to move on without even looking at it.

His final words of wisdom as the elderly couple and I walk towards the metal detector. “Move along expeditiously and the line will move quicker.”

First of all, I think he made a guess and got lucky that expeditiously is even a word. Second, he basically said that if you move quicker you will go quicker. Right.

I’ve gone through quite a few metal detectors but I’ve never been asked to take off my belt to pass through. I could understand if they made you take your belt off if you had a giant belt buckle that you could possibly hide something in. But they were making everybody take off their belts even if they had the simplest style of belt buckle.

I understand that it’s a government building and that those buildings get the highest level of security. That doesn’t mean that it can’t be funny and/or ridiculous. I haven’t been on a plane since 9/11 (Remember the terrorist attacks on New York City? Just Google 9/11 and you should probably be able to find some info) which may make me a little less accustomed to how crazy things have gotten.

Regardless, taking off your belt is funny and that high-on-power-even-though-he-has-none security guard is also funny.