Dublin security screener claims I have a “fork in bag.” Now, clearly when one speaks this phrase in Irish, the possibility for a misunderstanding presents itself. Upon my request, he repeats it and then proceeds to show me the video of my “forkin’ bag” on the monitor.
As I don’t make it a habit to travel with forks in my forkin’ bag, I ‘m sure it is a toothbrush. He, however, is adamant and demands a look, and now, nearing an altercation with a rather swarthy and likely-hungover Irishman, I consent. Ten minutes pass as he removes everything from my bag, and demands to know where the fork went. Spoken angrily by Dubliner, there is no question the word fork sounds like fuck and now several passengers are staring at this muscular chap presumably cursing at me about my “forkin bag.”
I ask him if the airline is going to be serving a meal on the flight and then comment that it’s more than likely I’ll be getting a forkin’ fork – apparently I’ve adopted the accent – during lunch and if the forkin’ utensil were truly that large a threat, why would the airlines be handing them out to all passengers. Advisory note: Irish TSA do not enjoy being made fun of, nor do they appreciate the type of logic required to be a smartass.
After two more screeners arrive, I am removed to the side of the screening area and now there are two hairy Gaelic men with white rubber gloves performing the equivalent of a rectal exam upon my carry-on – canvas briefcase approximately 24 inches by 16 inches with three pockets and barely enough space to hide a Cliff bar if you happen to carrying any substantive reading material.
I assume Columbus had a rough go across the Atlantic. I imagine Lewis and Clark put in some intense leg work. I remember Kennedy’s quest to reach the moon. And I’m cocksure these two men utilize the most heralded navigational techniques in scouring my bag for that fork. But there is no fork in that forkin’ bag.
“Where exactly are you hiding the fork?”
“We saw the forkin’ bag on the monitor and now it seems to have disappeared. Can you show us where it is?”
“I don’t have a forkin’ fork in bag?”
“Sir, we are going to have to confiscate your bag if we can’t find the fork in bag.”
“Fine, let me get my stuff out and you can keep the forkin’ bag.”
When I arrive in the States, my empty forkin’ bag is on the baggage carousel with no note and no explanation. I have no idea how these things happen.
Final note to TSA: I understand you are just doing your forkin’ jobs, but if you can’t forkin’ find the stupid forkin’ fork, perhaps there isn’t a forkin’ fork to be found.