War of the Fiskars

(A series of texts from one of my friends, who is dropping off his first-born at college.  Oh, and he and his wife hate each other.  A lot.)

Drew: “At the airport.  Apparently she bought him school supplies.  For college.  School supplies.”

Me: “Well, he’s going to need stuff, right?  Take it easy.”

Drew: “Meg, we checked seven bags.  SEVEN.  And she packed the school supplies in MY carry on.  I’ll give you three guesses what happened to the scissors.”

Me: “Oh shit…TSA?”

Drew: “Yes, TSA.  And they threatened ME, as if any of this was my doing.  Apparently, we’re also safer flying without the red Swingline stapler.”

Me: “Did you guys also get him the big box of crayons, because that built-in sharpener is going to get you strip searched.”

Drew: “You think you’re kidding, but this is going to happen.  I’m going to wind up in a federal prison over a math compass.”

Me: “She didn’t do it on purpose.”

Drew: “I’m not convinced.  But it WILL BE on purpose when we’re flying home, and I slip a pair of scissors in her carryon next to a giant tube of anal lube and a zucchini.”

Me: “She’s going to stab you in your sleep.”

Drew: “Worth it.”