Check on it

So I walk up to the check-in desk and there sits this haggard-looking woman who appears to be in the middle of what could only be the worst period of her life. I can tell by the I-hate-my-job expression on her face. Or maybe she just actually hates her job. Who knows? Either way, she doesn’t appear to be having a good day.

“Good evening,” I say politely with a smile on my face.

She eyes me for a split second before responding. “Good evening, sir. And how many bags will you be checking today?”

I look down at my solitary piece of baggage then back up at her.

“Just the one,” I reply, trying to hide the frustration in my voice as I point to the bag besides me. As if she can’t see.

I place the bag on the weighing platform or whatever it’s called, and the scale reads 53 pounds. I bite my lip, knowing the limit is 50.

“Oh dear, looks like you’re slightly overweight here,” she says with an attempt at a concerned facial expression. “You’re going to have to pay for the excess weight.”

Stupidly, I stare at the scales. I knew this was going to happen but I decide to act surprised.

“So how much is that going to be?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “One hundred dollars.”

I blink once, then a second time.

“Ok, so you’re telling me I have to pay one hundred dollars because my bag is three pounds over the limit?”

She replies that I do.

“Are my three extra pounds going to prevent the us from taking off? Or are they going to bring that plane plummeting out of the sky?”

She replies that they won’t – the plane can handle it.

I take a deep breath. “Well then why the fuck do I have to pay one hundred dollars?”

She says it’s the company’s policy.

“Oh well that explains everything then! It’s company policy. I’m flying half way across the world for three months and I’m only allowed 50 pounds? And now that I’m just three pounds overweight you’re going to make me pay $100? You know what? Fuck you.”

Her eyes widen as she exclaims there is no need for such language; she doesn’t write the policy.

Slamming my palm on her desk, I say, “Well thank God, otherwise it’d be even more fucked up than it already is!”

By now she’s too shocked to say anything so she just stares at me.

“Now listen here, bitch,” I say, leaning in closer, “this is what’s gonna happen. You’re going to check my bag like an obedient worker. After you’re done with that, you’re going to have a good talk with whoever writes the policy around here because it fucking stinks. And by the way, I’ll pay you that $100 when you see three pigs flying in formation around your house. That’s not gonna happen any time soon, so until then why don’t you just shut your mouth and CHECK MY FUCKING BAG!”

…

That’s what I should have said.

But instead I just nodded and asked, “Do you take Visa?”