La Floride 3

To re-cap: I had gotten to the airport with an expired passport. With no way to get into the States, I took a cab ride to the Brampton passport office, then to the Mississauga passport office, and after an eternity spent waiting in line-ups, I finally got my passport (thank you, CANADA!)and cabbed it back to the airport.
At the airport, I picked up my suitcase and found the Delta Airways counter. With nothing in hand except my reservation number, I managed to get my ticket to Fort Lauderdale via Atlanta.
With no time to waste I promptly checked in with boarding pass, passport and wallet in hand.
As soon as the U.S. customs agent (for the record, a Filipino man) looked up there was a moment - a split second - which told me this was not going to go well. Damn this face and beard!  The agent asked me the usual questions: travelling for pleasure or business; where to; staying at; born where?; uh-hunh; right.
He gave me my boarding pass back and stuck it in a bright yellow folder. It might as well have been a neon red folder.
I was told to go sit in a room to the side of the security check area. A brawny customs guy with blue latex gloves took my yellow folder. I sat down and waited.  I had to smile to myself. The guy next to me looked suspiciously like me...he had a North African look about him. I smile at him and he smiles back. For all I know this guy, unlike me, actually passed his bomb-making class.
Then, the first customs agent (Filipino man) shows up and says, "follow me sir." And begins to walk away, too fast for my tastes. I try to keep up and then give up and walk at my own pace. In a wholly different waiting area with no one around, I wait again.  I wait with nothing to do except to work the knots out of my neck for 15 minutes. It is now 2 p.m. One hour before my flight departs.
Finally, a fat white guy, Homeland Security himself, motions me into a smaller interview room. I am prepared for a cavity search, not because I am partial to fat white guys but because I have simply given up. It is now 10 hours since I woke up. I am tired.
I get the usual round of questions. Why am I going to Florida? To get away from the wife and kids I tell Fatty and smile...he looks at me with no expression whatsoever. He says, "That sounds kinda suspicious." My knee-jerk response was to make another joke and say, "you haven't met my wife."  Complete lack of affect. Have I got a business card showing where I work? This is one thing I did think about and hand Lardo my card from work. Several clicks on the computer, passport check, hotel address. When was the last time I was in the States...yadda, yadda.
Finally, Fat-Guy calls another border agent who asks to go through my suitcase.  They go through my suitcase.  Finally, the second agent exits and with his friend.  The big guy returns and gives me permission to go.
At last, success! Excellent!! I rub my hands in glee. My plans to out maneuver the forces of Homeland Security and deliver my wallet full of dollars into the faltering economy of the United States have succeeded.
The rest of my journey to Fort Lauderdale is quite uneventful. I sleep deeply for one hour on the first leg of my flight and chuckle through an HBO/Chris Rock special. I don't dwell on the journey thus far but try to take it all in and enjoy the ride.