The TSA security line was a snarling creature from hell last night at Las Vegas McCarran International Airport, a serpent that snaked around in self-choking circles.

I sighed. 

Normally I hit airports with my efficient, avoid-the-madness TSA pre-check designation, but I was traveling with my wife, who isn’t part of the club, so we stuck together and joined the regular cattle-call on our way home to San Francisco. 

Call me a total dick, (join the crowd) but I’m a fidgety Type-A traveler with zero patience for fools. I roll my eyes at clueless types who wait until they’re at the very front of the security line to finally realize where they are, and then go frantically searching through purses, pockets, wallets and carryons for their ID and ticket. 

I grind my teeth at bulky baby strollers and old guys who forget to take off their belts until told to do so. And I can only shake my head at all those fashionable women who don’t think their jewelry will set off any gulag escape alarms.

What century are these people from?

I gazed over at the TSA pre-check line, looking for my people, and noticed there was nobody there but a single lonely-looking security guy.

He gave me a look that said “It certainly sucks to to be you.”

I agreed. 

It did.

And then I saw — and heard — what the holdup was.

It was Broomhilda the Drill Sergeant and her newfangled X-ray machine.

Most of the old security stations were closed and our loooong-assed line was bottlenecked at a complicated machine that looked like it was designed by cretins or anarchists, or both, which of course it was.

Nearly three million passengers pass through TSA security at U.S. airports every single day. We’re used to having our privates prodded and our bags searched by fussy masochists. And if all that hasn’t been bad enough, now there’s this.

If it ain’t broke, blow it up, so the TSA slogan goes. 

If it’s simple, make it complicated.

Now, instead of simply placing your bags on a conveyor belt that happily hums through the X-ray machine, a process that has worked since the era of the Wright brothers, those TSA geniuses have come up with a new Gauntlet from Hades.

Now there are three “stations” at each x-ray setup at which plastic bins pop up automatically, one by one. When you take a tray from its holster beneath the conveyor belt, another appears to take its place.

It’s a complicated process where the slightest breakdown — say, a bin gets stuck and doesn’t pop up — and the entire process grinds to a halt.

This was the Christmas holiday season, the busiest travel time of the year.

What could possibly go wrong?

Everything goes in a bin, everything. Don’t even think of putting your shoes or laptop outside of one of those plastic trays.

That’s what Broomhilda was yelling at cowed passengers who gawked like Floridians in Manhattan. In her TSA uniform and flattened Midwest accent, she had the aura of a sadistic prison guard, a sneering 11th grade physics teacher, or sinister psych orderly.

And then suddenly, I was first in line. 

I noticed there was an opening at “station” three and wanted to do my part to make things go smoothly and efficiently.

So I made my move.

“No!” Broomhilda shrieked. “Go back! Did I invite you?”

She glanced over at other passengers for approval.

“Ya gotta be invited to this party,” she smirked. 

Moments earlier, Broomhilda had raised her voice toward an elderly couple who apparently hadn’t grasped the concept that everything goes in the bin.

She exploded at them, repeating her instructions, only louder this time.

Problem was, the older couple didn’t speak English.

When somebody told her, she threw up her hands as if to say, “Whatever.”

I wanted to throttle her.

When I was finally allowed at my “station,” I put my shoes in a bin with my luggage.

“No!” Broomhilda yelled. “Everything goes in its own bin!”

But then the loaded trays began to back up. The system was imploding. 

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

I had to laugh. This was actually funny.

“So, this is going to make things go faster?” I asked Broomhilda.

“It will when it works right,” she huffed. “And people listen.”

Good luck with that. 

Because in this age of Broomhilda and Big Brother, there is something about the airport security drill that makes most Americans panic, turns their minds to jello. 

And this spastic new x-ray system will only make things worse, just you watch.

A fellow passenger at the next “station” felt my pain.

“Yeah, it’s guys like us who are slowing down the whole system,” he said.

Did I mention that Broomhilda had yelled at him only moments before?

We smiled. 

Dude was my compadre, my partner in crime, my Fletcher Christian thumbing his nose at Captain Bligh. Together, we two were Randle P. McMurphy and Big Chief staring down Nurse Ratched, fellow inmates at the asylum.

It felt good, subversive even.

Finally, we made it through the gauntlet, collected our belongings, readjusted our self-esteem, and headed toward our gate.

As I moved off into the crowd, I could still hear Broomhilda’s bellow. “Everything goes in a bin!”