This thing.

And this hammer caused a security meltdown at JFK airport.

You might be thinking, “It’s a hammer. Who cares?”

Well, my friend, this isn’t just any ole hammer. This is a Friday Afternoon Hammer. The mullet of hammers. Business in the front. Party in the back.

I was dating a girl. She lived in Germany.

Yes, I realize that is 5,211 miles from Texas.

She liked to buy me stuff. You know, trinkets and whatnot. She was a really sweet girl. I always made her say “vegetables” because it sounded like “wedgetables.” I’d laugh. She wouldn’t.

Anyway, right before I was about to fly back home, she gave me a present. She was excited as I opened the box. My long pause set off her invisible alarm.

“What’s the matter?”

“I can’t bring a hammer on an airplane. They’ll arrest me.”

She was heartbroken. I had killed her spirit.

“Can’t you just pack it? It’ll be okay.”

“I’m not bringing it. It can stay here with my stuff. I’ll use it here. Besides, I don’t drink that much.”

She said okay and dropped the subject.

Two days later, it was time to leave. We kissed. She cried. I left.

Then the worst trip of my life began…

…

My flight out of Berlin was delayed. Arriving late in Paris, I ran for what felt like a hundred miles through one of the world’s worst designed airports, trying to make my connection to Atlanta while sweating my ass off in a down winter coat I bought in Germany to keep from freezing to death because they don’t sell real winter coats in Texas.

I missed the flight.

Next stop: Ticket counter.

A rude Air France lady began to rebook me on the next flight to Atlanta. She looked over at my suitcase. Her face scrunched up.

“That’s too big. You have to check it.”

“No it’s not. It’s an 18-inch suitcase.”

“Sorry. Your bag is too big.”

She took my bag, checked it, tossed it on the belt and off it went.

…

I left the counter and walked to security.

“Passport please.”

I reached into my front pocket. No passport. I checked all my pockets. No passport. I tore through my backpack. No passport. Then I realized…

Shit! My passport was inside my checked suitcase, inside the plane!

Back at the ticket counter, Ms. Air France was not a happy camper. She scolded me, rebooked me a second time - this time through New York. An hour later I got my suitcase back along with my passport.

Oh, but that’s not all…

During the ordeal, bad weather moved in, delaying my flight to JFK. Forty-five minutes later we boarded the flight and pushed back. Almost. A lady decided that she didn’t want to go flying anymore. Back at the gate again.

Another hour later we finally take off out of Paris, bound for New York.

…

Three movies later, we landed at JFK. I had 30 minutes to make an international connection, which, if you’ve connected internationally before, know is witchcraft.

I sprinted to baggage claim to grab my suitcase. By some miracle, it was the first one up on the carousel. I grabbed my TravelPro and ran towards customs. Rounding the corner, I see the world’s longest security line. People were lined up like hell’s version of Disneyland.

I’m never going to make it.

Luckily, someone at security yelled out, “Anyone on the Dallas flight needs to come to the front!”

That’s me! I sprinted to the front, millions of eyes judging me for my free pass…or that I was going to Dallas…Pffft, who cares. See ya, suckers!

“Put your bags on the belt.”

I did. I watched my luggage disappear through the x-ray tunnel. Security waved me through the naked machine.

On the other side I waited…

and waited…and waited…

What the hell? Where’s my bags?

Then all hell broke loose.

“WE GOT A HAMMER OVER HERE!”

Oh, God.

The security line came to a screeching halt. Three guards ran for my bag like I was smuggling bazookas. One grabbed it and hauled it over to a metal table, dumping everything out.

“You. Over here. Let me see your backpack, too.”

He tore apart my suitcase and backpack. It must have looked like I had robbed a gypsy. Everything was scattered all over the place…clean clothes, dirty clothes, trinkets, souvenirs…and one Friday Afternoon Hammer.

The security guy held my hammer high, like he’d just won a prize but didn’t know what for. He kept it.

Ten minutes later, he let me go. And by letting me go, I mean he left me standing there with stuff all over the place and didn’t bother to help me re-pack.

Jerk.

I crammed everything back inside my suitcase as fast as I could and ran to the gate for the flight to Dallas.

The door was closed.

An ancient printer slowly spit out the final numbers for the pilots, the gate agent patiently waiting for the artifact to finish its print job.

I pleaded, “I know you’re not supposed to do this. But it’s been an awful day. Is there any way you can let me on?”

She saw the long day written all over my face. “I’m not supposed to but sure, honey, I can do that.”

I didn’t question her further. I boarded the plane, took my seat, let out a sigh of relief and closed my eyes.

…

As that old 757 taxied out, my eyes suddenly popped opened. Something didn’t seem right. I was missing something…

My backpack!

In my rush to re-pack my suitcase at security, I left my backpack sitting on the table! It had everything…my keys, wallet, phone, camera and chocolate.

With nowhere to go, I stayed at a friend’s place. Friday, three days later, my bag showed up at the airport. When I got home, my camera was broken, phone smashed to pieces and chocolate was missing.

Damn, I needed a beer.

Turns out I could have used that hammer after all.