Thinking Terrorism? Try Again.
by Aryn Corley
I hate to fly.
It used to be a fun experience for me, but not anymore. My personal beef with Osama Bin Hidin’ is that he ruined it for me. I’ve even lost my taste for cruddy peanuts. To show my appreciation, I’d like to beat him senseless about the head with a pig’s leg.
No hard feelings.
My wife and I recently took a flight to Nashville. While I was looking forward to embarrassing her in another state with my antics, I wasn’t thrilled about the ordeal that was to occur at the hands of the Air Gestapo known as the TSA.
TSA stands for “This Stinks Already.”
Sadly, the jerks that hijacked those planes on 9/11 looked more like Mexicans than they did Swedes. It’s even sadder for me, because they all looked like my cousins.
The result: I get to enjoy an “extra” level of customer service that TSA has to offer.
Let’s face it: I probably look like a terrorist. An airport is not a good place for a brown guy, carrying a bag, hopped up on Starbucks. It makes people nervous.
My Hawaiian shirt is a dead giveaway. Nobody wears those anymore.
As I waited for my molestation, I watched the people and their facial expressions. The people standing in line looked like a snapshot of America — people from all over the globe hating to wait. Nobody seemed happy. The people in line looked like they were upset and the people with the white shirts looked like they wanted to club the people in line.
Maybe a huge block of government cheese would cheer things up?
I felt somewhat vindicated when I saw an elderly woman off to the side getting the “treatment.” She looked embarrassed to be spread-eagle in front of everyone. I remember thinking, “Al Qaeda must have one heck of a pension plan!” I bet they didn’t let her on the plane with her Ensure.
It is a liquid after all.
When it was my turn, I assumed the position and didn’t even use a fake Arabic accent like I had in the past. It seems that the sense of humor that used to predominate the airline industry went right out the window with our feeling of security. Jokes at the airport are about as welcome as the Hari Krishnas. Airports are now a comedic wasteland.
Gone are the days when you could win a bet by trying to sneak a foil-covered cucumber through the metal detector.
At first the whole affair was disconcerting, but now I find solace in the awkward groping of a complete stranger. It reminded me of the military physical I had to get before shipping off to basic training. The only difference is the absence of Dr. Extradigits poking around in my nether-regions.
The government sure knows how to make a guy feel special.
I’ve drunk the Kool-Aid and I know that these are the times we live in. I can’t question why the State of Texas gives me a gun, yet Uncle Sam doesn’t want me carrying a tube of toothpaste in my carry-on bags. If I have to strip to my boxers for the peace of mind of my fellow citizens, so be it.
But I don’t have to like it.
Please don’t think I’m bashing the TSA employees for having to enforce rules and regulations that seem to fly in the face of logic and reason. The government specializes in not making sense. I understand those men and women have a job to do and, if given the choice, they’d rather get paid for taking eight-hour coffee breaks.
In the war on common sense, I’m with the good guys.
After my shakedown, the TSA screener seemed cold and unfazed. No bomb this time. Maybe next time I’ll tape a bass or two to my chest. You know. Just to shake things up a little.
As I was investing myself of what I had been divested, I turned and saw a mom and baby being put through the same paces. To me, the only destruction this child looked capable of causing was in his diaper. As Momma was getting checked, he cried. Not to be fooling with the pair, the screener waived them on.
I made a note to myself.
The next time I fly, wear a diaper and cry a lot.
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