I ran into some of your employees, John, at Boston Logan airport, believe it or not. In fact, I had no choice but to run into them or I couldn’t get home.
Now, I had just flown from London to Boston without blowing up the airplane, and in fact the Heathrow coppers have their own Insecurity Theater similar to yours. But that didn’t matter. I couldn’t continue on to our nation’s corporate headquarters on the Potomac without being further treated as a mass-murderer, as all my compatriots so happily submit to. One has to wonder if some people actually take it as a sick compliment in some sort of dark fantasy.
I didn’t object to the unbelievably stupid ordeal that you put all flyers through until I was, for the first time in my case, asked to walk into one of your new scanners offering cancer risk and guaranteed profits for Michael Chertoff. When I objected, your hired goon began noisily mocking my concern over cancer, telling me I got more radiation by flying on a plane, and ordering me around like a prisoner.
When your hired groper showed up, after some time, he was all smiles and politeness. He asked if I wanted to be groped in a private room, and I turned him down. I failed to comprehend what about the groping job he did so traumatizes my puritanical fellow Americans so often. But his job was part of the same insane routine the bag scanners, metal detectors, and porno-radiators are — and he essentially admitted as much. He also suggested that I forward any complaints about it to you, as I’m now doing.
Following the whole ordeal, I leaned over to put on my shoes, and a rather large plastic case holding earplugs fell out of my shirt pocket. This disturbed your hired groper, as he’d managed to locate my balls but not a plastic object sitting visibly in my shirt pocket and now falling out on the floor. I advised him not to worry about it until the earplug bomber made news. I trust you will NOT share that possibility with Mr. Chertoff.