One in the Clink

I’ve been told a few times that I have quite an imagination. Not by my 3rd grade teacher that gave me a check under ‘needs improvement’ under the ‘ability to use imagination’ part of my report card which was shortly followed with another ‘needs improvement’ under the ‘social skills’ section. I feel that I have overcome these obstacles and perhaps compensated for them in my adult life.

With that said, I have often wondered what happens to the items Customs finds in people’s suitcases that they haven’t claimed on their Declaration card or perhaps isn’t even legal. What kind of party do these people have with all the drugs they ‘confiscate’? Do they eat the birds that have been tranquilized in someone’s jacket from the Asia flights? Say for example, someone brought over a human skull for a religious ceremony, what do they do with that? Put in on the mantle in the break room? Then….what happens to these people? Are they sent home? Are they shot like they are in Thailand? Used for practice in the military? What happens? I have to know.

Well, after grilling a customs agent which includes what I would like imagine as him being in a dark room with only a cold, child sized, metal chair for him to sit on so that he looks up at me only to see the glare of a 1970’s light bulb blinding him and the sound of my booming voice throwing question after question at him. In reality, I rode home on the train with him and we only sat together because it was packed and he was the only safe looking person to sit next to. I thought perhaps he would be the type of person to rescue me from a homeless person that was trying to get me to sit on his lap like to good ‘dumb white bitch’ that other homeless people in the streets of San Francisco like to describe me as. I’m sure I deserve it, but is it really necessary to yell it in front of everyone? Give me a chance to prove it myself. They kill all my fun.

Anyway, coming to find out there are jail cells in the airport…in every airport. Actually, there are two types. One is a holding cell for people that are polite and just made a mistake. These types of cells are much like an apartment with food, television, couches…all the comforts of home. These are usually for the foreigners.

The other type is a real cell. These are for people that have meltdowns. People that think that by speaking at the customs agent in such a level that dogs will scratch through walls or hide in their kennels like its July 4th, they will back down and tell them that the United States Customs regulations is really just a guideline and that it certainly does not include people that threaten them or all their entire family with all the power of all their ones of dollars. These cells are primarily for indignant Americans…or f*bombs gone mad. I’ve attached a video for your reference. Enjoy.

Ps. The customs agent told me that confiscated materials are placed in an incinerator.

Pss. I don’t believe him.