Newsflash for all you TSA-haters out there: I hate your junk.
Believe me, when I took this job, it was only because the mall where I was a security guard pretty much shut down. I've got a wife and kid. I need a health plan. And at the TSA, if you get promoted from screener to manager, you can be looking at decent money.
But most of all, I'm a patriot -- I want to help my country.
I didn't sign up to caress a colostomy bag.
I don't get off wrapping my hand around your johnson.
It doesn't thrill me to run my fingers inside the back of a pair of tighty whities that have skid marks.
I get no charge in counting how far into a roll of flab I can stick my hand.
And that's just what I've come to hate about this job while I'm doing it.
After hours, it's worse.
My hobby is bowling. I'm good at it, too. But now, at night, the thought of sticking my fingers into anything makes me gag.
At the backyard barbeque last weekend, I couldn't eat a hot dog, On spaghetti night, when my wife made meatballs, I lost my appetite.
None of which helps my marriage. My wife looks at my hands and turns away. That I wear rubber gloves all day is meaningless to her. "Who knows where those fingers have been?" she says.
Tomorrow is "Opt-Out"day. Thousands of smartasses are going to tell the screeners that no, sorry, they'd rather be strip-searched, groped and prodded than go through the nudie machine. The idea, they say, is to make life so unpleasant for the TSA screens that we'll beg our bosses to go easy on white Americans.
Not gonna happen.
But accidentally pushing a finger up your bum -- that could.
Squeezing your free willie? Might happen.
Don't be confused. I'm no perv. I really hate your junk.