Five Song Friday: Thanks for Nothing, TSA
Episode #131: Lusty Lingo, Teenage Kickflips and Boop Bitty Boop Loops
You can always count on airport security to suck the fun out of any vacation.
Once again, you’ve ruined my travel experience with your paranoid delusions and ridiculous rules.
I wasn’t drinking that $24 smoothie anyway.
You’re right, it’s better to be safe and dump it. Just in case Brenda at Blender Paradise misheard my request for a B12/spirulina Immunity Zap and gave me the Anthrax/Ebola Booster instead.
Disaster averted! Once again, you’ve saved the day!
Hooray. You guys are basically The Avengers. Except grumpier and with more sensible shoes.
Don’t forget to confiscate my 6-ounce lotion.
Sure, my elbows will become cracked and crunchy enough to tear the clothing of people passing by on the aisle. And God have mercy on the poor soul in the seat beside me.
But yeah, there is the possibility I’m a mad chemical genius who’s figured out a way to turn a tube of aloe and shea butter into a weapon of mass destruction.
Better safe than sorry!
And I’m so glad you confiscated that Pokemon snow globe. Gifts for children are dumb. What was I thinking?
I’d much rather see a sourpuss toss it into a garbage can than watch my nephew’s eyes light up with joy on Christmas morning.
Whew! That was a close one.
Seriously guys, it seems personal at this point.
Are we beefing? Because it feels a little beefy.
Remember last year when you confiscated my suitcase full of dried oregano?
You thought it looked like drugs and rolled your eyes when I told you I was bringing it to my gourmet chef friend in Canada, who specifically asked for a mix of big, wrapped bales and individual baggies for convenient, quick use.
Didn’t know I was dealing with the “portion police.”
You were like, don’t they have oregano in Canada?
And I said, of course they do, but not MY organic artisan oregano. And your agents looked at me stone-faced like a bunch of uncultured simps who think all herbs are the same.
They probably sprinkle the leaf dust at Sergio’s Pizza on a slice of pepperoni and feel like Bobby Flay. They think chimichurri is a song from Mary Poppins.
And don’t get me started on the wet ketchup they call spaghetti sauce.
The year before that? It was my brick of bulk talcum powder.
Remember? It was wrapped in brown packaging tape. You embarrassed me in public, gave that poor German Shepherd a sneezing fit and left me stranded for a week in the Bahamas with chafed thighs and heat rash.
Should I go on?
You want to talk about my gag dynamite alarm clock, the grenade paperweight that said “Complaint Department: Take a Number” or my golf bag full of Japanese swords?
You took them all.
Now, you’re standing here telling me I can’t get on the plane because, why? I have a pilot’s uniform in my carry on bag? And the name tag matches the actual pilot?
Well, please give my congratulations to your man in the cockpit.
Great job on being the one and only Gary O’Connell who ever lived! I’d love to give his parents an award for baby name originality.
You’re also saying nobody else—EVER in the history of human beings—has combined a handlebar mustache and an eyepatch? Only Gary? That’s amazing.
Let me make something crystal clear: I was NOT planning to pass myself off as Pilot Gary O’Connell.
I’ve never met the man. From what you tell me, he seems lovely and I thank him for his service in Desert Storm.
But I’m absolutely not trying to impersonate him.
I was NOT going to sneak my way into the cockpit and take control of the aircraft, even though I posted a message to my Facebook followers to tune in at 4pm and “watch me fly a plane.”
That was a typo. I forgot the word “in.”
The simple truth is that I’m heading to a Halloween party in Las Vegas. I’m going as a Pirate-Cop-Pilot. It’s called a “3-Way Combo Costume.” Very trendy. Google it.
I’m flattered you think I’m some kind of criminal mastermind, but once again, you’ve got this all wrong.
The only thing I’m guilty of is conspiring to switch my phone off “Airplane Mode.”
But even though I’ve explained all of this to you, been very calm and used my inside voice, you’re still putting me in handcuffs?
You guys are the absolute worst.
Five Song Friday #131
“The Ick” - Panic Shack
For those who may be out of the love lingo loop, “The Ick” is a thing. It’s defined as “a sudden feeling of disgust or repulsion towards someone you were previously attracted to.” Just one of the reasons why, whenever I think about people in the prime of their dating years, I feel sad. It’s not because I’m old and married and sitting on the sidelines while all the young people flail around horny and drunk on hormones and dopamine. I’m sad because there’s so much more nuance and drama and vocabulary connected with courtship these days. Modern romance is complicated! Once upon a time, the only two things you had to worry about were how long to wait to call someone back on the telephone and AIDS.
“Bloodstains (Original Version)” - Agent Orange
When it comes to the 80s skate-surf-punk-rock Renaissance, I was late to the party. It was probably the early 90s. I was still young enough to make Agent Orange the soundtrack to doing dumb, reckless things I don’t remember. But not young enough to brag that I was shredding along to “Bloodstains” back at the skate park while trying to land an old school kickflip to impress 13-year-old girls. I wasn’t a skate park kid. I didn’t own a skateboard. And the only way I’d impress a 13-year-old girl is if she was super into awkward doofuses who could crush a game of Galaga.
“Say Neighbor” - Burrell
Oh my goodness, this track is super dope and mad ridiculous! Burrell rhymes “booty” with “juicy” and “fruity.” He follows “John Wick” with “Bisquick.” And the whole time there’s this wheep, wheep, whopp, whopp, biddy-biddy, beep-bop loop going round and round like a calliope on nitrous. I’d like to think this is just the catchy, silly song America needs right now. Give it a spin and dance like nobody is watching. Stop thinking about war, politics and the economy and just relax. But don’t relax so much that you forget to vote. Because if you don’t vote, we’re all doomed.
“Crystal Breath” - Kim Deal
I never thought the young woman who rocked my early 90s world as a member of the Pixies and The Breeders would still be kicking bass and serenading my earholes more than 30 years later. I figured she would have settled down somewhere in the Pacific Northwest and really got into making soups and sewing pillows or something chill. Instead, she’s still recording and touring and occasionally punching strangers in the eye when they pop out of the bushes and beg her to sing the “aaaaoooooooowaahhhh” sound from “Cannonball.” That was my bad. Totally deserved it.
“Mum Does the Washing” - Joshua Idehen
Here’s some proof that the world is a better place when poets and musicians get together. It’s even better when that partnership teaches you something. Here’s a breakdown of “the world according to your mum doing the washing.” Everything makes so much more sense now. I wish Joshua could have been my history or government professor back in high school. Maybe then I’d understand things like how Kamala Harris can be Marxist, socialist and fascist all at the same time. This song is even more better with a video.
“You can say what you want, but for all these years, I’ve been robbing people. I’ve been having fun and they’ve been paying and it just don’t seem right.” - Chuck Berry (Born October 18, 1926)
Thanks for reading!
Sincerely,
DJ CrankyPete