Traveling with a Busload of Torons.
Home from the Voyage of the Damned. As I originally had no intention of doing a blog on the Facebook, (can you tell I’ve been around old people?) until Scott’s request, I didn’t tell you of the bad omen that occurred in the airport before heading to Iceland. By now, you know that I didn’t see the Northern Lights, but on the flight over, I was stopped at JFK TSA where they checked out my Southern Lights via a very vigorous pat down, reach up, reach around, and a few honks of my boobs for good measure. With all that patting, TSA must’ve thought that an Isis training camp was housed in my jeans. I was finally let through with all that I brought but without my dignity. Little did I know that the TSA rubdown would pale in comparison to my return from Iceland. Andrew, Keith, and I were all randomly selected by customs for a check before leaving Iceland. We were each given an innocuous deli/bakery number; which could mean your baloney and/or buns might get handled by Tovar, an Icelandic customs guard. Of course, Andrew and Keith were quickly whisked through the process, just as my number was being called. After more of a third date pat down vs. the JFK first-date variety, I was told that they needed to check my bags. Something in my bags tested positive for a powder more dangerous than cheeto dust and the next thing I knew, they took me into a private back room for questioning and to give me the prison newcomer’s pat down. As Inga went about her business, I tried to imagine that I was getting a Swedish massage instead of them getting up in my “Danish”. After 5 minutes of this, I started to wonder if a terrorist or drug kingpin had secreted some plastique or heroin up my ass, while I was changing at the Blue Lagoon. Finally, they let me go and offered me a cigarette. Travel lesson learned, when customs asks you if you name your nether regions, don’t answer that you refer to that area as “Midnight Express” #MeToo
Rubber Chicken 