The TSA (Transportation Safety Administration) is coming under fire again for groping some new kid or feeling up another beauty queen / basketball cheerleader. Somebody got all bent out of shape because uncaring hands in blue plastic gloves are touching the outside of clothes in the general area of private parts. OMG! Americans are being violated! Privacy is being perverted. Lines are being crossed! A whole new set of rules has to be adopted because someone was offended!!
Really? That’s where we are? We’re all so privileged in our protected cocoons of safety where nothing bad ever happens that now we have the cheek to feel violated about a pat down after ten years of increased security because people who have vowed to destroy us have actually used airplanes to kill before?
You know that there are actual important things to deal with? You know, for instance that teenagers are still chopping arms off of people in central africa for backing the wrong despotic candidate, right? You know that somewhere in a sand hut with a sand floor in the middle of sandy-ass Libya a small family of uneducated skeletons supported by a sewage worker who got the job because he’s skinny enough to fit into the sewer pipe is sharing their last meal of rotten rice because sometime tomorrow an errant NATO bomb meant to help them stay free from Mohammar Qadhafi will free them permanantly from this mortal coil. There’s actual stuff happening to actual people all over the world nearly every moment of every day.
And now you’re upset because Lakeisha at the TSA station, who just wants to finish her shift and go back home to fix dinner for her kids, touched you, in a completely unemotional and non sexual way, between your legs so that the rest of us can know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you’re not smuggling guns, knives, dope or bombs onto the plane in order to kills us all.?
You know what? Fuck you. Yeah, you heard me. Fuck you and the precious little entitled horse you rode in on. Bend over, spread’em, take the goddamn pat down and shut the fuck up. Nobody cares about your “feelings” or your right to privacy. If you can’t let Darrell check your nethers for lighters and fuses, then maybe you should just start driving because I don’t want you on the plane next to me. I don’t want to have to tackle you when you reach down to re-adjust the fellas or tie your shoes. I don’t want to call my wife on the Skyphone to tell her that me and some other passengers are going to have to take the plane back from bunch of idiots with box cutters and God delusions because you didn’t want somebody to touch, even for a second, your flabby ass cheeks and inner thighs.
And while we’re at it, patting down a kid doesn’t mean shit to the kid. And it would have passed without notice by that kid except that some mom who felt like little Sarah Jean Whateverhernameis was just the kind of kid to get a lot of “Look at me” press for the mom’s pet grudge (that she picked up from FOX or CNN). “Oh, my little angel has been violated. Point the camera at me. Look at my pasion and anguish. I want my 15 minutes.”
Listen up, America, You have some choices to make. You can take the pat down, walk through the body scanner or even show up at the airport naked… or, and here’s the choicest choice, don’t freekin fly. It’s up to you. You choose. But do it now and get the hell over it or so help me, I’m going to pull this car over and smack all of you.
If you take the pat down, you have to accept that there is no such thing as an effective pat down that doesn’t touch everything, including babies butts and crotches and your tits. If there’s a place that TSA isn’t allowed to touch, that’s where the drugs, the bombs and the guns will be.
It’s not like nobody every stuffed a kilo of cocaine into a baby’s diaper or up somebody’s ass in a string of balloons before. When I was a youngster, everybody I knew who smoked pot carried their dope in their underpants. I knew one guy who tucked it way up behind his balls and actually got past a police pat down once because the cop didn’t want to crotch grab. Good for my friend. Not good if that’s TSA, now, and bomb making materials. Half a security pat down is no pat down at all and absolutely not secure.
With all that we’ve seen in the last few years, it can’t possibly been that long until somebody tries to be the first Boobie Bomber. So believe me, we want TSA to be able check out the fake tatas. We NEED TSA to be able to check out the fake tatas.
If you choose the scanner you have to accept that completely disinterested hourly employees of the government are going to see ghostlike outlines of your person in which your belt buckle, your dental bridge work, the pin in your knee from the skiing accident 20 years ago and the gun taped to the inside of your thigh will show up as fairly solid shapes and that your butt, your boobs, your embarrassingly small penis, your belly overhang and your armpit fat will not only be vaguely discernible wisps of imagery but that the bored individuals seeing it will dismiss it immediately, not store it for future use or distribute it to the internet for somebody’s perverse pleasure or stare, point or giggle at you on the way by because nobody cares about your fat, old, body (or even the young good-looking ones). Porn is way too easy to get in thousands of variations for anybody to spend even a second of their time ogling your x-rays.
And if you fly a lot and you’re worried that being scanned all the time will increase your radiation exposure, you should know this; Standing on the side-walk waiting for your friend to pick you up at the airport exposes you to more radiation than the scanner ever could.
Or, you could choose not to fly. Nobody is making you fly. Nobody says you have to be searched, patted or scanned. You’re making the choice to fly and with that comes the responsibility to prove without a doubt that we who do not know you can trust you not to kill us and that you can likewise now trust us; all because, Mr. Blueglove Dontgiveashit touched your junk in a totally not gay way.
I know you’ve got an argument right now but you know what. Shut up. Nobody wants to hear it.