OKAY, I’VE DONE some stupid stuff in my life, but it’s usually because I didn’t think it through and most of the time I can’t find my own butt without both
At least the TSA has a legit reason to perform the old Boob Brush . . .
hands and a flashlight, but feeling up a Transportation Security Admin Agent–not that I haven’t been tempted, a few of those airport security guys are pretty hot and it’s been a long time since I’ve been felt up by anyone who doesn’t have me in their will.
That woman who is being praised–and called a heroine–on Fox and featured on every other broadcast for groping a TSA agent ought to have her head examined along with her underwear.
We all get felt up every day in ways that are far less necessary reasons than making sure the guy behind you is not going to underwear-bomb his balls off taking you and the entire rest of the plane on his trip to get his 13 virgins.
The point is, most women (and quite a few men for that matter) I know have fallen prey to the old “Boob Brush.” You know the one, where the guy leans in to shake your hand and oh, accidentally hugs your hooter. And that is far more invasive than a good old fashioned police-style pat down to make sure you’re not hiding a flame thrower in your fly.
People do stupid things when they travel. Well, that’s pretty broad–I do stupid things all the time. I don’t mean to, that’s why it’s called “Doing Stupid Things.”
About five years ago when my dad was getting really ill, he gave me one of his prize possessions–an antique, Revolutionary War pistol home. I had often admired that pistol and was touched that Dad would give it to me, so I wrapped it in bubble wrap and put it in my carry on.
My brother–who was flying with me and already packed–walked to see if I needed help and he stopped dead in his tracks and said, “Uh, Sis, what are you doing?”
“Duh,” I said. “Packing”
He stared at me. “You’re packing a gun? In your carry on?”
“It’s not a gun it’s a pistol, and look, it’s one of those old flint locks. What is it, like 200 years old? You’d need a sheepskin of gunpowder and a bucket off lead balls to even use it.”
“Uh huh,” he said, taking the pistol out of my bag to go pack it up and ship it properly before we headed to the airport.
And of course, while waiting in the security line, one of the dogs alerted on my bag. The TSA agent said, “Ma’am, can you step aside?”
The blood drained out of my brother’s face as he followed me over to the security screening area where the agent opened my suitcase.
The agent turned to me and said, “Do you have a gun in here?”
“No,” I said, truthfully.
The dog barked and the man said, “Have you ever had a gun in here?”
“Well yes,” I said, “but it was a Civil War flint lock . . .”
The TSA agent needn’t have worried about disciplining me.
My brother was looking at me like he was going to shoot me.
The point is, we live in dangerous times, and security makes it a little less dangerous–the TSA pat down at least gives the bad guys pause for thought. And so what if you’re not hiding a weapon, what if the guy behind you is? Just put on your big girl panties and deal with it.