So we pull up to meet a customs agent. She’s about 25, perhaps Native American etc. Beautiful. Severe hair-pulled back scenario.
Wendy: HI!
KJ: Hi there!
Customs agent: (unamused; blank stare)
Customs agent: Where are you going?
Wendy: To Alaska!
KJ: Yep!
Customs agent: (ditto, maybe the sound of crickets) (Angry crickets)
Customs agent: WHAT is she doing? What is that?
Wendy: She’s uh, taking a picture of Batman for her son…and she’s chronicling our trip!
Customs agent: Stop that. Turn that off now.


2 thoughts on “Customs

  1. YL says:

    Canadian custom agents are my pet peeves. Some 20 years ago I accidentally drove into Canada and did not happen to have a passport on me. Ever since, I hate going there, as my border crossing, even on a transit flight, turns into hours of waiting and questioning at the customs. Once I nearly missed my flight because of those $:;$(&;);@($/.

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