"What do you get when you cross a homeless man and a proctologist?" I joked in my head as the TSA guy summoned me through the metal detector with his blue latexed index finger. I am convinced that the goal of the September 11th attacks was not to kill Americans, but instead to have each of us spend an entire year of our life span waiting in airport security lines, praying to God that the metal detector doesn't go off so we won't have to play 'Seven Minutes in Heaven' in an airport supply closet. It went off once when I was traveling to Amsterdam with a friend, and I've never been the same since.
Since I don't think he spoke English, the TSA guy directed me to the side and then made a motion to extend my arms out. I've heard that Italians make the best lovers, and in that case, they make the best security screeners as well. He smiled as he began to sexually assault me, rubbing my arms and torso like he was waxing a Ferrari. He grabbed my belt, gave it a firm tug, and then slid a finger behind it and went around my waistline. It tickled a bit, so I smiled and winked at my friend who was enjoying the show. Next came the slight foreplay of a little pat on the butt. Then, holding me in place by the belt with one hand, he stuck the other down my pants and shook hands with my penis.
Squirming with wild-eyes and mouth agape, I looked over at my friend and said with intermittent yelps, "HhhhOOOlllYYY SsshhhIIIItttT." I didn't know whether to turn and cough or put my hands on his head and seductively push him to his knees. As my friend laughed, the screener walked his fingers past my balls, paused to check me for drugs and three types of cancer, and then broke towards third. By this point I was on my tiptoes and making uncomfortable noises through my clenched teeth. He stopped, thank God, at my final frontier, where neither girl nor doctor has ever ventured. Thanks TSA, for protecting us from terrorists by looking for explosives hidden behind my balls. But for future reference, if you want to make it look more like a screening and less like a prison shower, search my shoes too.
The bottom line is that I can't take anyone with an embroidered badge seriously. If they're going to palm my nuts and rifle through my personal belongings, fine. But I want them to have a metal badge, and at least a tazer.
The last dozen or so times I've flown, I've only gotten my luggage the same day about a third of the time. That average is great if you're a baseball team and not a major airline. Luckily when they do lose it and reduce my wardrobe to that of a cartoon character, I'm just doing small stuff like business trips, and six day cruises that leave in three hours opportunities where changing clothes is merely a suggestion. That mentioned average also includes the times when the first thing appearing at the baggage claim conveyor is my boxers, followed by some of my shirts, and then my opened suitcase. Makes you glad they instituted the 'no lock on your zipper' rule, and that you didn't pack your loofa.
Last week on the way back from a trip out West one of them actually unscrewed the shampoo in my luggage to make sure it wasn't liquid explosives or whatever. By the time I got it, it looked like someone had jerked off a horse in my suitcase. I walk into the gym in my running shoes, which had been in the suitcase, and people look around wondering why it suddenly smells like candy. Next time I travel I'm bringing an unnecessary suitcase packed with rags and a shampoo bottle of my urine, and a note that says, "I bet you can't smell the difference between shampoo and liquid explosives."
Can someone explain why we even pay people to dig through other people's bags? I've never found a more fitting job description for the homeless; that's like, all they do. We could just pull up under the overpass in a van, grab a few, and tell them, "There's half a chicken sandwich in one of these bags" and set them loose to treasure hunt through the luggage. You will never find a cheaper and more thorough workforce. And I guarantee you're not going to catch them unscrewing any bottles of shampoo.
*This post and others like it on my blog at www.intelligenthumor.com/adventuresofperry