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Well ladies and gentlemen I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.
There comes a time in all our lives when we need to dispense with our chosen catchphrase of reevaluating life’s happenings and just utter a classic assertion made in this site over fifteen years ago.
The TSA sucks.
If you thought you were coming here on a Saturday morning to imbibe a digital slatherey of cream cheese flavored verbal brilliance on the Everything bagel that is Tharpster.org, you’re a little mistaken.
First of all, it ain’t Saturday. It’s Wednesday.
Secondly, I’m not in the bloggery. I’m on a plane trying to ignore the safety presentation by flight attendants who are obviously proud about the month of June and how it’s been bastardized in recent years.
Yesterday at this very time, I was at the six mile mark going up Pikes Peak. I was standing in front of a wood carving of Sasquatch standing with its knees together while its intestinal system was putting forth a heroic effort to hold everything in that gravity was trying to extract.
I even commissioned an AI engine to draw a picture of the event as if it were a selfie.
Looking back, I understand now that Bigfoot wasn’t trying to hold something in.
Instead, he was trying to show me where the TSA would be touching me less than a day later.
I didn’t know those creatures had the gift of prophecy.
That being said, let me reiterate that the TSA sucks.
Never mind everything else that has happened on this trip which led to me facing the blue shirted, glove donning thug who was describing how he was going to run the backs of his hands over my urinary expression manifold.
The machine that generates nekid pictures of travelers revealed a red dot region in my genital verification zone that needed additional scrutiny.
It seems the machine (rendering nekid pictures of me off site) pinpointed an unpatriotic shadow lurking between my pelvic fault line and the freedom fork of my britches.
Such a shadow was almost a problem many years ago and now dictates that walking through one of those scanners with properly hoisted britches is disallowed.
According to AI:
We take off our belts at TSA checkpoints not because they pose any real threat, but because one guy once tried to roast his crotch on a plane in 2009 and now we all get foreplay from a blue-shirted stranger. The underwear bomber failed miserably, but his legacy lives on in full-body scanners and the ritual humiliation of removing anything that might jingle. At this point, it’s less about security and more about making sure we remember who’s in charge.
The pat down started at my rear and was met with an immediate assessment of what created the negative space in my undercarriage buffer zone. “Your pants caused the problem sir. You need to pull them up.”
“Gee if only there was a device I could apply to the loops in these jeans that would circle my waist and prevent the creation of a perfect nesting spot for a combustible material designed to render me and my fellow sojourners goochless.”
Just to summarize, the reason the TSA had to apply additional scrutiny to my own personal safe space was because of their stupid policy.
Thanks for the “Hands up, pants down warning”, Bigfoot.
Sorry I didn’t understand it at the time.
[…] By June 13th, we had gone to the service for the colleague, Colorado for Mom (complete with a TSA pat-down), and San Angelo for Aunt Sher. We had one more service scheduled for the family friend on […]