I know what you're thinking. You're probably expecting me to rant about some crazy person wearing a fannypack, doing idiot things, and thus giving me something to blog about. Well, you're wrong. In any other situation, yes, that would be a completely legitimate story for one of my blog posts and such a character would fit nicely between Idiot Convertible Driver and well, Billy Bob. However, today's lesson on all things fannypack revolves around a bomb threat.
So I'm sitting at my desk, doing my daily crossword puzzle, counting the milliseconds until 5:00 p.m. when Mark calls me to tell me that there are about a dozen cop cars blocking off several intersections downtown. I don't think much of it and decide the blockade is probably for another stupid parade the city is doing. (I'm pretty sure my city would do a Groundhog Day parade if they had enough clowns and horse riding cops volunteer for it.) So I go back to figuring out what a five letter word for "fundraising dinner unit" could be. (It's "plate" by the way.) Time: 4:32 p.m.
"Suzy, you'll have to exit the parking garage on the West side today. They've got the East side barracaded because of the BOMB THREAT," says Billy Bob. Wha???? My ears perk up. I freak out. I begin to sweat. "Did you say bomb threat?" "Yeah. Crazy, ain't it?" "Why the hell are we still in the building then?" I ask. "Oh, it's probably just some crazy taxpayer mad about how much they had to pay in property taxes this year," says the man whose property taxes are frozen at the ridiculous 1947 millage rate (Billy Bob). "Well, it sure would be nice if they'd let us put into practice those stupid drills we had to do last week," I say (well, more like shout. Hysterically.) Time: 4:51 p.m.
I begin to gather my things and mentally prepare a will. Time: 4:56 p.m.
Time: 5:00 p.m. I run down the stairs, through the sliding glass doors, onto 2nd Avenue. I am greeted by no less than 10 cop cars, 3 fire trucks, and one BOMB SQUAD MOBILE RESPONSE UNIT TRACTOR TRAILER. I stare in disbelief. This is definitely not a parade. There are men in uniform walky-talkying all around me. There are concerned citizens milling about. And then there's me, hightailing it my car to get the hell away from a potential bomb that may or may not have the ability to blast me into the next milleneum.
I arrive home. Time: 5:15 p.m. I check the local newspaper's website and find this headline: "Suspicious Package at Columbus Government Center isn't dangerous, situation ends."
The culprit: a fannypack with a pair of gloves inside, laying in the bushes. Time Homeland Security (I'm not kidding) was called to the scene: 4:30 p.m.
Case in point? Fannypacks are the devil. Fannypack? You are dead to me.