This weekend I visited our nation’s capital. If you’re reading this from outside the U.S., Washington DC can be summed up as follows:

Every 2-4 years, Americans vote to send our most disagreeable citizens to Washington where they are forced to argue with each other in close quarters. We compensate them by pretending they matter and giving them dental and vision benefits for life.

Americans love to visit Washington DC and see the buildings where we’ve housed the disagreeable people. We also like to go to museums. There are lots of museums in Washington DC. History, art, military, aviation, and even harmonica cases*.

But the best museum by far is the Spy Museum. When you first arrive, you’re greeted by the James Bond Aston Martin car. It’s quite possibly the most amazing car ever produced. I had a single tear of joy when I saw it. I’ve always wanted a car that could launch rockets, create smoke screens, and even eject unruly passengers. Especially when the kids were still home.

Once you pay homage to the car, you take an elevator to the upper floors to work your way through the museum. They give you an ID badge, and a brief training video then set you off with a fake name and mission. Your job is to complete the tasks along the way.

I did not complete the tasks along the way. Not because I’m a bad spy. It was due to the fact that there were way too many people in the museum at once to get to the kiosks where you answered questions and did the spy stuff. Also, I was too mesmerized by the gadgets. That’s the main reason I want to be a spy. I want the gadgets.

For example, they had an actual poison dart device that looked like a normal pen. I repeatedly asked the docents to let me demonstrate it on a particularly rowdy group of teenagers from Wisconsin, but they wouldn’t let me. Personally, I think knocking out a few people with a spy dart pen would have really enhanced the experience for many of the guests, but the museum staff felt otherwise.

One thing that was missing was a jetpack. James Bond used one in the movie Thunderball. I fully intended to try one out at the museum, but I couldn’t find any. I asked a staff member and he gave me a curious answer. “We don’t have those, sir.”

I winked, “I get it. We can’t just let anybody use those, can we?”

No response.

“Just give me some idea of where they are hidden.”

No response.

“Are they near the dart pens?”

No response.

“I know, the exhibit on spy movies!”

He sighed.

“That’s it! Thanks. And I won’t tell a soul!”

I spent the next hour looking for a secret door in the exhibit on spy movies. When I tried to wiggle the Aston Martin toy on display, thinking that it might open the hidden passageway to the jet packs, I was asked to leave.

“You mean this exhibit or the museum.”

They meant the museum.

“Oh, I get it. You’ve got the jetpacks outside! Of course! You can’t fly one of those in here. What was I thinking? Off we go,” I said.

I followed the security team through a dark hallway leading to an emergency exit. They swiped a key card and motioned for me to step outside. “Okay, I’m ready for my flight.”

They stepped back in and shut the door leaving me alone in an alley.

So, now I’m running for Congress. If I’m disagreeable enough to get elected, then I can live there full-time and continue my search for the jetpacks when I’m not arguing laws and whatnot. Or maybe I can get one of the dart pens and use it on unruly members of Congress. I’m definitely getting a car with an ejector seat.

Carry on, Citizens!

*Yes, it’s real.