dude, that's my neti pot

Boise airport. 4:30 AM. Insomnia headache. I was standing in line thinking “I could be hit by a hellfire missile right now and I wouldn’t feel any different”. The lady in front of me has apparently missed the changes in airport security that have occurred over the past 10 or so years. I was trying to stay calm by doing some tiger breathing. It occurs to me after some sleep that I might have looked a little weird. My eyes were also blood shot from eighteen hour days at my computer trying to finish a client engagement that should have been scheduled for two weeks instead of three days.

I walked through the metal detector and the guard called for a bag check. I realized that I had left my wine bottle opener in my suitcase. So annoying. Even though it has no knife on it they always inspect it. And while logic would suggest that if I can actually kill someone, or even injure them, with a wine bottle opener knife that can barely cut a label the problem is not the wine bottle opener, I am still forced to sit through the security scrutiny.

I felt like I was looking through sand as I slogged over to the “special table”. I could tell the guard was psyched to have busted me on something. I was getting this vibe from him that if it were just the two of us alone he would have already shot me. He opened my case and began rifling through the contents even though I told him exactly where the opener was. He poked at my yoga toes with a pen. I’m sure he thought they were some kind of kinky sex implement. Then he spied my neti pot.

“Don’t MOVE!” he yelled at me. He talked into his shoulder mike: “I’ve got some drug paraphernalia.” What for the love of ganesh is this idiot talking about? I wondered. The drug guy came over. They conferenced about the situation off to the side. I hear something about “pipe”. It finally dawns on me that they are talking about my neti pot.

“Dude, that’s my NETI POT” I say. They look at me as if I’ve suddenly sprouted 2 more arms and started playing the ukulele. Then they discovered the salt that goes in my neti pot.

I will spare you the rest of the details. The drug dog came over and drooled on my suitcase. I swear that one of them went and looked up “neti pot” on the web to find out what it was. They finally let me go. I went to my gate and slumped down in a seat wishing I had the supernatural power to cause men to get ingrown hair on their testicles. The DEA guy paraded past my gate at least 5 or 6 times, usually with his buddy, and usually talking very loudly about hippies or druggies not being welcome in Boise. Everyone at the gate kept staring at me.

I think someone should make up a shirt that says “Dude, that’s my neti pot” and sell it alongside shirts that say things like “Don’t taze me bro”.