Dear smelly discheveled guy with 6 bags, none of them having zippers that work,

I was already annoyed that I was behind you in the immigration line while you emptied each of your 6 bags looking for your misplaced passport. How could you honestly act surprised when they asked for it? There were only 17 signs and 42 airport security people reminding you to have your passport in hand … while you waited in the line for two hours.

I praised the Lord when they let me move to the front of another line rather than stand their watching you pull random items from your duffle bag, suitcase, man purse, duty free bag, briefcase and fanny pack. But I thanked my lucky stars too soon. As I waited in the next one hour line that takes us to that part where you push the button and wait for the red or green light, the guy in front of me waved his friend over to cut in front of me. Yes, it was you.

You threw down all your bags and said “I couldn’t find my passport.” Yes, (sigh), we know. Then, you proceeded to push your dufflebag with your foot while we worked our way around the hairpin turns. That wouldn’t have been quite so bad, if it wasn’t leaking a trail of some foul smelling liquid which I had to gracefully avoid with my two nicely packed rolling bags the entire time. As if that was not enough, I had to tell the poor guy behind me who was carrying his bride to be’s ridiculously long wedding gown (what is she a giant?) that he was dragging said gown through your unidentified nasty liquid trail.

I thought for sure karma would balance things out after me having to deal with you and doing the good deed of keeping future husband from being ex-fiance, but no, the world works in mysterious ways. I got the red light and had all my bags torn apart while I watched you and your six bags, one of them leaking foreign liquid, breeze right on through customs and up to the nearest bar.