You are the ugly, green carry-on bag my family and I relied on for years. After decades of meritorious service, your first sign of advanced age was the zipper handle that would come off in my hand—as well as the TSA agent’s after she opened you at the secondary bag check at John Wayne Airport. (The agent who had first scanned you on the monitor flagged you because she could not figure out what a plastic wrapper in a pocket was.) Shortly after arriving at my destination, you called it quits for good by having your zipper track completely detach from your right side, exposing everything inside until I could get to where I could purchase a replacement. I’d honor your lengthy service had you not embarrassingly exposed my undies to the flying world.
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