Last Day in France

Back at the airport, heading home.   If I were Charles de Gaule, I'd be pissed that they named this mess after me.

At the pre-screening spot, the guy starts asking questions in a completely indecipherable drone.  Is it French?  Is it English?  John speaks both and can't figure it out.  I think it could be Mandarin.  The guy keeps looking at me and mumbling shit.  "Huh? Did I what??" John travels all the time and he's starting to look nervous.  Not a good sign.  Sam, "Are we in trouble?"  Me, "Quite possibly now shhh." Another question.  John: "Uh, yes?"  Me:  "Did we just sign up for Amway?"  As we weave our way over to the baggage check-in, I look back over and the dude is totally laughing!  Bastard was fucking with us!

At the baggage check-in counter, the lady starts asking us the same questions.  John: "We just went through this with him."  And we're both fairly certain we had.  John: "Look, he put stickers on our passports."  Turns out they're Hello Kitty stickers.  Not really but it wouldn't have surprised me.  Then her machine runs out of tape.  She has to climb over to our side of the counter to replace it.  Who designed that?  And the metal door keeps swinging back and hitting her in the arm.  So I step over our bags and hold the door for her because that would drive me all kinds of shades of crazy to be over on this side of the counter, trying to replace the roll and the fucking door won't stay open and Pierre's over there on his little stool laughing at me.  aaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh!  "Someone's going to Emergency, someone's going to jail." Anyway, she gets back to her side of the counter and puts two priority stickers on my bag.  Then 26 hours later, it's the very first bag off the conveyor belt!  Pay it Forward, Bitches!!

Next stop security-security.  "Have your bags been out of your sight at anytime?"  Fucking hell, again??