Stride up to that counter, lads, bypassing the common folk as you majestically roll past them with your airline luggage. I like to really overdo it as I apologize profusely to the misinformed corporate drone who thought he was next in line to present his worldly possessions to the all-seeing eye of the x-ray.
“Pardon-moi mon ami! Crew coming through!”
Mr. ‘But-I was-Next’ mutters under his breath and fishes the Bluetooth out of his ear. Clutching his Tupperware tub of travelling goodies and standing there in his socked feet, he looks like a little refugee! I place both hands on my hips and fling my head back with joy, bellowing with laughter at his frustration.
The mullet bounces and flicks mockingly. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I suddenly look at him seriously as I tap my yellow pass. Security clearance, monsieur. It pays to stay in school! 
I turn my attention to the stainless steel counter, and heave my luggage up for inspection with a deep, manly yell. Remember to bend those knees and lift with your legs, chaps. On the day in question, I caught the adoring glance of a blonde in my peripheral, and made sure to pump out a quick set of curls at the top of the maneuver—just enough so that vein makes an appearance. Thanks for the photo op, CATSA!
Zip open that rolly, mates. Show the good people what a true professional rolls around in that suitcase of wonder. Along with my resistance bands and workout books, I like to stow a couple of light dumbbells for detail work. A six-pack of AXE body spray lives next door to a healthy stack of Louis Vittons, and a bottle of aged Scotch. Never hurts to tanker some of the good stuff, boys!
My massive laptop gets plucked from this little mobile man-cave and placed in my own personal Tupperware bin. And then it begins, much to the delight of the female onlookers. My personal removal of metal items is truly a sight to behold. The Tupperware groans under the weight of my steel-toed cowboy boots, massive Timex, RayBans, dangly Camaro earring, Vince Neil collector ring and my RATT fan-club issue Zippo. I fling the keys to the El Camino with a deft behind-the-back motion as I point at the swooning redhead in Lane 3 with my free hand. The wallet chain is unclipped in one seamless blur, and spins end over end into my tub, landing with an authoritative clatter. My pen collection is next—impressive stylos from all of the hotels in the system emerge from every nook and cranny and are neatly stacked for presentation to the officer in the form of a small log cabin. Details count, men. My gold bracelets soar through the air in slow motion, landing like glittering donuts and spinning to a stop next to the stainless steel replica of a 182.
The crowd waits with a hush for the splashy spectacle to conclude. I slow my breathing and face the X-ray officer. He waits with baited breath, his latexed finger hovering over the belt operation button. My bulging tub sits poised on the conveyer belt. I nod—once. He stabs the button and the Tupperware trundles out of sight. My arms stretch out to the sides, my fingers flex, and the mullet crawls up to come to rest on my right shoulder like a trained parrot. Configured for inspection!
I stroll forward wearing the proficient mask of an expert. Each shoulder grazes the side of the x-ray machine as I squeeze those delts through the small opening CATSA provides. Two words explain it all: Military Press. The CATSA super agent waits for me on the other side, baton poised at the ready to strike if I make a hint of movement. They are trained for action, gents. No tomfoolery permitted here! One false move would earn me a vigorous clubbing followed by a quick trip to the back room for a little latex massage. No thanks!
Surrounded by rif-raff, the CATSA super agent is forced to blend into his or her surroundings like a chameleon—shirt pulled out on one side, 2 days of carefully grown stubble, strategically-placed chewing gum and the trademark rugged blue commando pants barely hiding the high performance Nike’s located down below. But nothing gets by me, chaps: I notice their rank by the epaulettes on the shoulders, and the paper thin dress shirt leaves nothing to the imagination. I can just imagine the training these superhuman folk must endure to wave the wand that allows entry to the cabin of the mighty 8! A lone tear of pride trickles down my cheek as I stand as straight as I can for my inspection with the wand—one soldier to another.
The steady electronic Wee-oo—WWee-oo of the wand as it bounces over my buttocks and pecs instills a real sense of confidence in me. Nothing escapes the electronic eye!
I let out a sigh of relief and feel the emotion wash over me as the super agent informs me I have passed inspection for another day. My firm salute and military-style nod is met with a look of confusion—just another day on the job for them! I shake my head in disbelief. So modest.
Humbled by their thoroughness, I interrupt the laughter and conversation around the x-ray machine and shake all of their hands enthusiastically.
“Thanks for keeping us all safe, son”, I say, gently cuffing a new recruit on the chin and tapping my nose with the knowing look of an insider. I jerk my head at a shuffling senior approaching the counter. Heads up, boys. A senior CATSA agent springs into action to defeat the incoming threat. He’s on it!
The lucky security line slows again for a quick theatrical display as the metal items are lovingly removed from the Tupperware and returned to their original homes. The Camaro earring dangles playfully from my ear as a fresh toothpick sets up camp on my lower lip. My guns flex one last time for the crowd as the luggage is swept from the perch of the counter and returned to the floor. I bounce into a deep, knee-cracking squat as I clip my flight bag to my rolly—to complete the Russian dancer effect I clap my hands, fire a leg out to the side, and let out a loud “HEY!”. The crowd goes wild!
I spring to my feet and look around. The mullet peeks around too with curiosity before nuzzling against my neck. Warm.
I bid adieu to all my CATSA brethren. They chatter excitedly amongst themselves in some strange sounding language. Code.
I stride away chuckling to the sounds of complaints from the suspicious senior as he is frisked and questioned by two elite agents. No mercy. There goes his walker—off to the bomb squad!
Take no prisoners when it comes to air safety, mates. The system works, my friend. The system works.
*CATSA is an acronym for Covert-Anti-Terrorist-Super-Agents, lads. Impressive? You betcha!
