The Big Bang Theory
Is it the clothes I Wear? Is it the way I do my hair? Is it as the Terms & Conditions state........that I have been randomly selected to undergo the Drug and Explosives test......
........Today was the day I cracked it....
After being "randomly" selected upon check-in/arrival and Perth airport by a lovely chap who laughed when I mused "agaiiiiiiin....this happens all the time...." I exited the airport to partake in my own ritual of lethal gas emission into the wide expanse of the Universe.
After disposing...(Correctly) of my lethal emenator, I proceeded to enter the security screening area once more.
It was not enough for my inner-mosts to be xrayed upon a wide screen (which does NO justice to my proud size 7's), a young chap by the name of Captain Dick Slap, motioned for me to once more....open my flaps.
As the seams came apart my "fashionably matured" mauve patterned bouquet bag, I began to question (quite loud) why it was soooooooo necessary to swab me...yet again.
Throwing me a rudimentary glare and a shabbily laminated Terms & Conditions (which I understood in TWO of the six languages displayed) he continued to trace the insides and outsides of my silhouette.
Confused by his robotic demure and somewhat annoyed at the fact that no one was reacting to my hissy fit (inspired by Violet Plum from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory......I want a gold goose NOW daddy!) I impolitely asked to speak to the Manager whilst intimidatingly placing my hands on my hips and stretching my spine out fully, therefore towering a greedy whole foot over the snooty-nosed ginga ....ginga..........
Making his grand entrance with much grandeur and heavily combed over red haired comb-over, tidy 1920’s bank robber moustache and wobbly man boobs ( transparent in his polyester blues).
“May I help you?” (Insert cheesy grin here)
“Yes, you may, sir? (Insert sarcasm here) “Would you so kindly explain why BOTH of your “colleagues” have tested me within no less than 20mins of each other (heavily exaggerated understatement of time) AND why every single time I fly frequently, I am put through this annoyingly rigouress (?)experience and or exercise. Is it my appearance, or are you really trying to piss me off?”
(Meanwhile bearded men stroll past freely to their departure gates, carrying rocket launchers smuggled via man-robes)
To this he simply replies, that I was amongst the 50 people per day to complain and question the same complex……..C O M P L E X ? (all the while smiling at me…)
Feeling somewhat like a dork, I thanked him for his lack of insight, his time and the privilege of allowing me to be so close to his polyester shirt (whilst glaring intently at his man boobs).
Turning quite swiftly to recover my possessions, I asked the young ginga if he’d located the crack cocaine I had stored in my luggage, laughed out aloud for being such a prude, whilst reminding myself (out loud, of course) that I was glad they hadn’t located the heroin I’d stashed up my anus.
The fact that I was accosted by TWO gingas for appearing armed/threatening and or menacing has enabled me to uncover my latest conspiracy blog:
Ginga’s are rising from the ashes, a la phoenix style, getting their just deserves upon those who’ve taken the piss out of them for the majority of their lives.
Admittedly, I have enjoyed taking the piss out of gingas, torturing them and even banding against their very existence (thank you Catherine Tate Show)
Have they, somewhere along the line, created theories, made plans using AutoCad, undergone rigouress (?) technical and physical training to get back at me and those like me?
As if punishment wasn’t enough for me. Discovering past lovers were gingas…accidentally, or finding a red hair in my chicken last night……..a ginga chef….cooking for muah?!
As if those experiences didn’t leave bad enough tastes in my mouth, or scarred me emotionally, physically and or sexually. Now having infiltrated our security systems, and borderlines with contingency plans of re-educating and painfully paining those of different coloured hues.
If my red preceptor could see variants of up to 71% that would allow me to become a Prefect in East Carmine, leaving me extremely annoyed and most vulnerable to carrot tops and red exclamation marks (red exclamation marks look rude.) Orange, being made up of yellow and red would thus prove my tolerance to yellow would be pushing boundaries AND friendships…………..allowing the above take form and be true, no doubt I would be donning a “needs humility” badge and out of pocket at least 800 demerits for not following the rules.
But who’s rules are they?
The gingas?
……..or the Munsell’s?
........Today was the day I cracked it....
After being "randomly" selected upon check-in/arrival and Perth airport by a lovely chap who laughed when I mused "agaiiiiiiin....this happens all the time...." I exited the airport to partake in my own ritual of lethal gas emission into the wide expanse of the Universe.
After disposing...(Correctly) of my lethal emenator, I proceeded to enter the security screening area once more.
It was not enough for my inner-mosts to be xrayed upon a wide screen (which does NO justice to my proud size 7's), a young chap by the name of Captain Dick Slap, motioned for me to once more....open my flaps.
As the seams came apart my "fashionably matured" mauve patterned bouquet bag, I began to question (quite loud) why it was soooooooo necessary to swab me...yet again.
Throwing me a rudimentary glare and a shabbily laminated Terms & Conditions (which I understood in TWO of the six languages displayed) he continued to trace the insides and outsides of my silhouette.
Confused by his robotic demure and somewhat annoyed at the fact that no one was reacting to my hissy fit (inspired by Violet Plum from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory......I want a gold goose NOW daddy!) I impolitely asked to speak to the Manager whilst intimidatingly placing my hands on my hips and stretching my spine out fully, therefore towering a greedy whole foot over the snooty-nosed ginga ....ginga..........
Making his grand entrance with much grandeur and heavily combed over red haired comb-over, tidy 1920’s bank robber moustache and wobbly man boobs ( transparent in his polyester blues).
“May I help you?” (Insert cheesy grin here)
“Yes, you may, sir? (Insert sarcasm here) “Would you so kindly explain why BOTH of your “colleagues” have tested me within no less than 20mins of each other (heavily exaggerated understatement of time) AND why every single time I fly frequently, I am put through this annoyingly rigouress (?)experience and or exercise. Is it my appearance, or are you really trying to piss me off?”
(Meanwhile bearded men stroll past freely to their departure gates, carrying rocket launchers smuggled via man-robes)
To this he simply replies, that I was amongst the 50 people per day to complain and question the same complex……..C O M P L E X ? (all the while smiling at me…)
Feeling somewhat like a dork, I thanked him for his lack of insight, his time and the privilege of allowing me to be so close to his polyester shirt (whilst glaring intently at his man boobs).
Turning quite swiftly to recover my possessions, I asked the young ginga if he’d located the crack cocaine I had stored in my luggage, laughed out aloud for being such a prude, whilst reminding myself (out loud, of course) that I was glad they hadn’t located the heroin I’d stashed up my anus.
The fact that I was accosted by TWO gingas for appearing armed/threatening and or menacing has enabled me to uncover my latest conspiracy blog:
Ginga’s are rising from the ashes, a la phoenix style, getting their just deserves upon those who’ve taken the piss out of them for the majority of their lives.
Admittedly, I have enjoyed taking the piss out of gingas, torturing them and even banding against their very existence (thank you Catherine Tate Show)
Have they, somewhere along the line, created theories, made plans using AutoCad, undergone rigouress (?) technical and physical training to get back at me and those like me?
As if punishment wasn’t enough for me. Discovering past lovers were gingas…accidentally, or finding a red hair in my chicken last night……..a ginga chef….cooking for muah?!
As if those experiences didn’t leave bad enough tastes in my mouth, or scarred me emotionally, physically and or sexually. Now having infiltrated our security systems, and borderlines with contingency plans of re-educating and painfully paining those of different coloured hues.
If my red preceptor could see variants of up to 71% that would allow me to become a Prefect in East Carmine, leaving me extremely annoyed and most vulnerable to carrot tops and red exclamation marks (red exclamation marks look rude.) Orange, being made up of yellow and red would thus prove my tolerance to yellow would be pushing boundaries AND friendships…………..allowing the above take form and be true, no doubt I would be donning a “needs humility” badge and out of pocket at least 800 demerits for not following the rules.
But who’s rules are they?
The gingas?
……..or the Munsell’s?
posted by Jelkie at 9:37 PM
1 comments
