tl;Dr TSA will publicly humiliate you if you don't pack your liquids correctly, but while doing so will overlook the marijuana in your carry-ons.
There’s a strange kind of performance that happens at airport security. People shuffle along in their socks, clutching laptops and baggies of toothpaste, all of us quietly rehearsing the rules in our heads. We want to get it right. We want to move through unnoticed, unbothered. But sometimes, the system has other plans.
It started with a bag. A gallon-sized ziplock. My wife and I had packed all our toiletries into it, the leakier bottles neatly double-bagged. It seemed reasonable—practical, even. But the moment our bag slid through the scanner, we knew we’d erred.
The TSA agent—clearly new and in training—plucked our bag from the conveyor belt like a prize catch. He held it aloft, turning to his colleagues, then to us, and then to the entire airport.
“Gallon bags aren’t allowed,” he announced. “It’s quart-sized bags only!”
It felt less like an airport procedure and more like being called out in class for checking your phone because grandma is in the hospital. Around us, people craned their necks to see who had broken the sacred quart-bag rule. I half expected someone to start booing.
Our gallon bag was placed in TSA limbo—a small table off to the side. We were told to wait. And wait we did, watching as agents waved other travelers through with nary a glance at their bags. For ten long minutes, we stood there, wondering what fresh punishment our toiletries had earned us.
Eventually, the same agent approached, holding two flimsy quart-sized bags. If you’ve ever tried packing for a trip using a bottom-shelf sandwich bag, you’ll understand the challenge. These weren’t just thin—they seemed to exist purely in two dimensions, stubbornly rejecting the concept of a third.
Somehow, my wife and I managed to divide our belongings between them. We presented our work to the agent like students handing in a rushed science project, hopeful it would pass.
It didn’t.
“They need to be closed,” the agent gleefully said, gesturing at the open tops with a mix of newfound authority.
We zipped the bags shut.
Finally, it seemed we had satisfied the rules of engagement. Having demonstrated that our liquids complied with regulations, I unzipped one of the quart-sized bags, ready to return the leakiest items to the gallon ziplock—a bag far better suited for the task and the obvious choice from the start.
The agent, clearly realizing I was about to undermine his authority, immediately intervened. “That’s not allowed,” he announced loudly, before offering to “take care of my trash.” Without waiting for a response, he reached for the gallon bag in my hand as though it were his sworn duty to eliminate all illicit ziplocks from the world.
“That’s not trash,” I said. “Give it back.” It was my patriotic duty to ensure his power trip ended then and there.
And end it did.
There’s something surreal about the intensity TSA brings to these small interactions. It’s not just about rules or safety—it’s about the theater of it all. The announcements, the pauses, the quiet power plays over something as small as bottles of shampoo in a ziplock bag.
As we settled in at the gate, the loudspeaker crackled to life with a pre-recorded message: “Reminder: All liquids in carry-on bags must be in containers of 3 ounces or less and fit into a single sealed, clear, quart-sized bag.”
On the bright side, they totally missed the...
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