What happened with The Shirt

Some of you have asked what happened when i wore the infamous TSA protest shirt. Well, i burned the iron-on when applying the statements on the back of the shirt so there was an ugly brown cast beneath the words that somehow took away from the righteous indignation of the sentiments expressed. in other words, it was ugly. but you could read it. I did a better job on the front although the iron on had a stiffer plasticey texture than the shirt which made the shirt even more ill-fitting than it already was (which is why it was slated to be ironed on in the first place) causing some unflattering puckering at the boob line. V immediately pointed this out as i presented the final product to him and my niece, also traveling the next day, but not nearly as concerned about the growing american police state as manifested in TSA xray scanners and pat downs as i was. I was pleased that she knew the upside down flag was not a dissing of the flag itself, but the universal symbol of a country in distress. i was confident others would know this too.

I wore a jacket over the shirt, but you could see the upside down flag and the TSA: Training Submissive Americans part. On the MARTA train down to the airport i had a few curious glances but i could not compete with the fella who had stapled his own protest cardboard sign to a mesh ball cap which raged on about the "leo day care center". When, in a foolish attempt at rebel camaraderie,  i asked him what his hat meant he said he didnt know, glared at me, and got up and moved to another seat.

"very nice, peanut" commented V as he jiggled along deeply focused on his iphone screen.

At the terminal most people were engrossed in their own pitiful lives so my shirt did not draw any looks or comments until we reached the security gates. then it got more interesting. there were 3 nekkid body scanners installed -but all of them were cordoned off. so - i wouldnt have to opt out after all, which was fine by me, but now i was worried that my shirt was too much for the occasion. would i be pulled out of line and subjected to a search by the lady prison warden from the movie "seven beauties?". When i took off my jacket and the burnt statements of ben franklin, thomas jeffereson and bob marley were exposed i began to hear comments behind me.

"look at that shirt" was about the extent of it.

there was a trio of girls behind me that i could hear talking about it so i turned around and showed them the front.

"do you agree with this?" said i, as i watched their eyes finish the last of the statement.

"yes!" they replied emphatically which meant they agreed or were scared to not agree with ms. crazytown.

I beamed with triumph. V smirked and gave an amusement snort.

the TSA goon who waved me through the scanner either:

a. did not read my shirt
b. was not offended by my shirt
c. had an IQ of 72

Later I had several people give me the thumbs up or say "right on" or whatever. On the tram ride to my terminal a lady studied my shirt for a long time and then looked at me and frowned. i winked at her and gave her an air kiss. she looked away quickly. Later, on the plane as i was buckling in, someone tapped on my shoulder and asked me if they could see the shirt -having not been able to get it all as i walked down the isle to my seat. I stood up, stretched it out from my body so it was more readable, and what followed was a healthy discussion on "what this really is". I was sad that a few of the people in the conversation actually think this degree of intrusion is acceptable to keep us safe -whatever "safe" is.

When we arrived at our motel -and it was an old school motel -not hotel (which i could write an entire post on V's dissatisfaction with the accommodations) i threw the shirt in the trash. V was relieved. I warned him not to be too excited because it wouldnt be the last of my protest shirts, but i was determined to find a more artful and professional way to execute it. screenprinting. thats the ticket.

As might have been expected, on the flight back, we were delayed on the tarmac for almost 40 minutes. each passing second of recycled plague air ramped up my general anxiety over getting a cold and dammif i didnt get a freaking cold! And i am pretty sure i have a fever too because i just woke from a dream where i lived in a high rise apartment with a trio of women (was it the gals from the security line?) who had pink hair that looked like the recent icing swirls i had piped onto to devils food cupcakes and shiny white go-go boots. for some reason, we were using those metal fire escape stairs to get to our apartment. the girl in front of me had something ironed on to the ass part of her string bikini pants. my brain was in overdrive trying to make out the image while also making sure to not take a misstep and fall 12 stories down to my death. finally it came to me. It was the face of the ugliest guy on the old show F-Troop - though it was hard to make out due to the repeated washings the panties had endured.

Burning bright before you i swear this is true.