Is there anything on earth better than a big meal? Maybe seeing an enemy starve us equal. Certainly nothing beats it.
After a big meal today though, I had my confidence shattered. Police officers are protecting our freedom at the entrance to the train I ride with random bag checks. They’re on the clock ensuring nobody blows up the train because if somebody did they’d let all of New Jersey down.
Sometimes I do have a bag, but today all I had was my charming personality and a belly full of food. Apparently, cleaning my plate at dinner was enough to cause stomach expansion to a level in which my stomach actually looked like I was smuggling something.
Aren’t police officers supposed to have good eyesight? Or am I confusing them with baseball umpires? Which is the one we’re supposed to spit on in an argument? I guess the answer depends on your race.
The lawman asked that I step over to have my bag checked. Not since my last physical when the final turn your head and cough moment has anyone asked to check any bag of mine. I agreed to the bag check only for the police officer to then question if I even had one. I didn’t so he let me pass.
I could feel bad about this. Instead I’m going to blame it on my four layers of baggy clothing. Between my oversized wrestling t-shirt, stretched out plaid business attire, gargantuan hoodie covered in dog fur and bearded lady facial remnants, and jacket–it’s no wonder the policeman didn’t ask me to remove the family from under my shirt.
I think he was embarrassed. If he wasn’t, I’m supposed to sue him for hurting my feelings.
Worst of all, as I was haunted by memories of being a fat kid, some mother snuck baby formula onto the train. Fat shaming me nearly cost America its innocence today all because I dress like a slob.
(Okay, so maybe the cop wasn’t so crazy after all. He should have at least searched my giant head)