Flying back home from my recent Bahamas trip, I threw three cans of chili in my bag. It was expensive chili, since everything in the Bahamas is expensive, and I wanted to eat it when I got back home. I’m a cheapass.
I never check bags. Checking bags is a waste of time. So walking through security at the Airport in Miami, they called me aside and informed me they had to physically inspect my bag’s contents.
Since freedom died in America long ago, I shrugged at one of the usual symptoms of the decline of Western Civilization, and proceeded to watch the minimum wage security guy rifle through my socks and underwear, looking for bombs.
When he saw the three metal cans, which is what “flagged” me as a security risk, he asked, “Where are you headed?”
Not sure why that as any of his business, but not wanting to delay my flight, I answered, “Seattle.”
“Do they not have canned chili in Seattle?” he asked.
I slowly turned my whole body towards him and give him my response, which was a long, silent, angry, Clint Eastwood Alpha Male stare. The stare communicated, but did not say, “Why the hell is it any of your business what I pack in my personal belongings?”
He put his hands up and said, “I’m just asking. Uh, we’re all done here.”
Air travel is fun.