Six Chix: The Comic Strip

Two days after Umar Farouk AbdulMutallab attempted to set fire to a plane above Detroit by way of explosive underwear my husband and I attempted to board our flight home. We were in Toronto over the holiday and were scheduled to fly back to New York on Sunday. Needless to say, the heightened security was enough for the airline to cancel our flight– and not only our flight, but nearly every flight headed south of the border, especially those to New York. In short, Pearson International Airport had become a sort of deranged purgatory of lost souls looking for a place to check their luggage.
I don’t know about you but when I hear the words, “Your flight is CANCELLED” I also hear the words, “You’ll have to re-organize your entire life for the next couple of days. May as well give us your daily planner so we can laugh at what you thought was a plan. Thank you for flying American Airlines!”
After learning that the earliest New York bound flight we could even fantasize about was a mere two days away, my adventurous husband decided we should rent a car and drive the 450 miles home. “If we don’t hit any red lights,” he said, “we’ll be there before the next terrorist decides to blow up his underwear.”
In minutes we were wading through tangles of people towards what ended up being only a mirage of a Budget Car Rental kiosk. I had never seen terminal three in such a mess — it was so overpopulated the janitors were sweeping people. There were so may lines that you couldn’t walk a straight line without cutting into a line. There were people who’s immigration status had changed since the time they entered the airport. It was Heaven for complainers.
At the car-rental place we were met with an over-worked, sleep-deprived employee who’s heartbeat depended on Red Bull. We tried not to strangle her when she informed us that there were no America-bound cars to rent, get this, IN THE ENTIRE CITY. Now, I hadn’t known this before, but apparently if you want to drive a Canada-only rental vehicle across the border and then leave it in the United States, you have to give them a lot of money, plus any jewelry you may be wearing. Not willing to part with our wedding bands and engagement ring, we decided that the best way to get back at the underwear terrorist was to wake up early the next day, take a 2 1/2 hour Greyhound bus ride to Buffalo, rent a car in that snowy city, and from there drive seven hours home. Which we did. Take that, underwear-bomber, we got home despite your evil agenda.
Now let me be serious about this for a minute, because terrorism is serious stuff and I don’t want anyone to think that I’m making light of it for the sake of humor.
But seriously, what I want to know is, how can I get my name on the Terrorist Watch List? What do I have to do? Who do I have to talk to? I want my name, and my husband’s name, on that LIST. Because if our names were on that damn list we’d never have to worry about being denied access to a flight. We’d swim through security with all sorts of shampoos and conditioners and yes, even nail clippers(!) in our carry-ons. And we’d do it all in really hot underwear. Dangerously hot.
Tell me, can we get on that list? It would make getting on a plane so much easier.

thanks!
rina