Kurt Busch will not take the green flag at Homestead on Sunday. Credit: Autostock

Final Turn: A little respect

Upon conclusion of last evening's edition of Back Seat Drivers, I scurried off to Miami International Airport to hop a plane back to Charlotte in great anticipation of spending the wee hours of Nov. 17 admiring my wife and scouring what amounts to pine tar from my newborn son's posterior.

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En route I was crabby, ever mindful that 10 hours later I'd be right back at the airport to catch a return flight to South Beach. Personally, the bad attitude invariably makes it -- whatever frustrating dynamic "it" happens to be -- worse.

That's the story, here. Bear with me.

Once checked in, I arrived at the security gate and was ushered into what seemed the typical line of stationary humanity, they of the expressionless faces and shoeless feet waiting lifelessly to place laptops and backpacks on the x-ray conveyor belt.

We waited. And waited. And waited. Meanwhile, those flanking us to the left and right were meandering through rapidly. Confused, and slightly more than slightly agitated, I asked the gentleman in front of me, an English chap donning an expensive-looking suit and t-shirt (don't ask), if he'd been made aware the reasoning for the holdup.

Apparently he had, and informed me that we'd been randomly selected to undergo additional, more comprehensive security screening.

Oh, joy.

The extra screening was indeed comprehensive. Step 1 entailed standing in a bulky contraption resembling an elevator, sans the roof, that blasts quick bursts of air at the occupant from all angles, supposedly to determine whether or not explosives are on his person.

And for a time it provided welcome comic relief.

One unsuspecting gentleman was startled by the bursts and let out a girlish yelp. He was some 60 years old. We chuckled. Another lady's skirt popped up. She turned (very) red. We sheepishly grinned. Next was the Englishman, then me.

Perplexed and intrigued, we were lined up yet again, this time to make the standard run through the individual security screener.

By this time folks were restless. The English dude began cussing into his cell phone. Audibly. He was obviously releasing tension. I contemplated doing the same. No reception. Go figure.

Many minutes later, we ducked through the individual screener and were once again lined up. This time we were directed to sit at individual stations while a Transportation Security Administration officer perused our belongings.

Perfect. Here we sat, frustrated, embarrassed, all, our Hanes on display for half of greater Miami to see, our belongings strewn about like roadside trash. After more than an hour at the security gate I'd officially had my fill.

Now, please don't get me wrong. I'm completely behind any and all necessary safety precautions the airline industry must take to preserve safe skies. Read that sentence again.

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But fact is, being a new dad and I hadn't slept much. Thus the crankiness was calling the shots.

Bad idea. As the TSA agent diligently rubbed my luggage with what looked like a recycled Oxy 10 blemish-removing pad, he queried me about my destination city and what plans I had upon arrival.

My answers were short, toned with annoyance. And just then, as he zipped and unzipped, poked and prodded, I thought about Kurt Busch.

Totally different circumstances, same premise, same applicable principle: All anyone asks for is a little respect.

Doesn't matter if it's a policeman conducting a traffic stop or a waitress down at the local diner. You may not be happy with what I'm doing, but it's my job and I'm going to do it the best I can.

And if you give me lip or attitude, it'll take longer. Much longer.

As that thought filtered through my head, the inspecting agent slapped a lime green sticker on my ticket. I was clear to go -- and awfully thankful I'd kept my crappy attitude to myself.

Rest assured, Kurt Busch will do the same next time. He had to learn a valuable lesson the hard way last weekend.

Marty Smith is a senior writer for NASCAR.COM.

The opinions expressed are solely of the writer.