Biceps Are Not Brains

So I did one of those 48 hour trips to LA this weekend. Got to see all my peeps. The amazing Julesy was the chair of a big Hollywood event, so the Beloved and I dusted off the tuxedoes and headed west (AFTER having my pants let out TWO INCHES in the waist. Motherfucker.)

We’re at the hometown airport on Friday waiting to depart, so I dart into the Everything Shoppe to grab a magazine, book and gum. Just outside the door to the Shoppe is the secondary screening area for TSA. A very tall, buff young man has been selected for secondary screening. He is facing me, standing no more than six or eight feet away. The TSA agent asks him to raise his arms out to his side, as he is going to pat him down.

Before doing so, the agent asks the routine question, “Do you have any injuries or conditions I should know about?” In a deep, manly voice, the dumb jock replies, in all seriousness, “Well my bicep is a little swollen from my workout yesterday.”

I could hear the TSA agents eyes rolling into the back of his head. Thank God this was the one moment all weekend when I didn’t have a drink in my hand. I would have spewed it out through my nose.

Ahhh, it’s a good thing he was pretty.