I have had it with the airport security checks. They make us remove more and more clothing, while letting us take less and less on board. Soon we'll be shelling out $1000 for the privilege of traveling naked in a three-foot caged pen. We won't be allowed to eat, drink, or pee during the flight. Communication will be prohibited, except for furtive glances with the flight attendants -- who, incidentally, will be robots with tasers.I don't care about terrorists. You know why? LIFE INVOLVES RISK. The only way of making air travel completely safe is to BAN FLYING. The "zero risk" game is unwinnable, and the only people that lose are us, in the form of our civil liberties. Every time I'm asked to remove another piece of clothing at the airport security check, I go nuts. But quietly, lest they probe my bum-bum.
My question was this: are the security checks really any more effective? To find out, I decided to re-enact the classic scene from the 1984 movie This is Spinal Tap, where bassist Derek Smalls puts a foil-lined cucumber down his pants, which is picked up by the security wand. Only I decided to go one better, by putting a buzzing vibrator down my pants.
I went out and bought a plain Jane vibrator, the kind that everyone in America has next to their bed. In Scandinavia, I'm told, the average household has more exciting vibrators, molded into the shapes of fantastic mythological creatures, in bold hues such as magenta and hot pink. In America, it's always this:
I went into the airport lavatory and quietly stuffed the vibe down my pants, which did not look as obvious as you might think.
I set it humming and calmly approached the security gate.
The first round of security was the woman (always a woman) who checks your boarding pass and ID. She made sure the picture on the ID matched my face, then handed it back. "Enjoy your flight," she said with a smile.
"I am already," I said, smiling back.
Next I went to the belt, where I emptied my pockets, emptied my bag, took off my watch, and took off my shoes. The only thing they didn't ask me to empty was my intestines, but that's next year. Just before I went through the gate, the portly young woman on the other side, who I thought might find the stunt funny, was replaced by a surly old guy who looked like an ex-Marine.
"Oh no," I said to the vibrator.
The guard motioned me through the gate, which beeped alarmingly. He told me to try again. I beeped again. Visually scanning my body, his eyes rested on my crotch. "You are not fully divested, sir!" he barked.
I was thinking of a joke involving stock portfolios, but he quickly shot out, "Male wanding, GATE 1!"
We sat there uncomfortably for a few minutes, waiting for someone to come wand me, perhaps a fairy princess. The ex-Marine stood directly facing me, his eyes nervously darting to my groin. It was nerve-racking, but the vibrator quietly soothed my jangled nerves.
Finally, a tall young man came over and grabbed my things from the belt. "Come with me," he said, leading me to the public area where ethnic people usually get the patdown.
Now, I have to tell you that I am not on any known profiling list. I never get selected for a random search, I never get put through the machine where they blow air on you or insert the tube up your genitals. I am a white, middle-aged family man with a bald spot, and apparently guys that look like me don't blow up planes. We buy them.
Maybe this is why the TSA employee was extremely courteous and polite. "I am going to run this wand over your body, and in some places I will touch you. I will only use the back of my hand. If at any time you feel uncomfortable, you may request a search in a private area." By "private area," I didn't know if he meant a separate room, or my grundle, but I wisely remained quiet.
"Do you have any prosthetic or medical implants or accessories on your body?" he asked.
"I have a medical device."
"Where?"
"In my pants."
"Okay." He looked a bit confused, but ran the wand over my body, front and back, asking me to spread my legs and hold out my arms. Like a gourmet dessert, he saved my chode for last. The wand began to shriek madly.
"Ah..." He seemed unsure what to do about this. "All right, I will search that area manually, again using only the back of my hand."
"Fine." (Free back-of-the-handjob.)
He felt the outline of the marital aid, looking at me strangely. "Is it supposed to be vibrating like that?"
"Yes," I said with authority, as if I was dying and vibrators were my medicine.
"Okay, I'm going to need to give you a private screening."
"Fine," I said, my heart pounding. I hated myself for starting this Web site.
He led me over to a black curtained area where TSA employees apparently took their breaks. Some reading materials and beverages sat next to a small chair.
A large black officer joined us in the room, holding two pairs of tongs. Uh oh, I thought, here's where they ask me to spread my cheeks, and not the good cheeks.
"We need to swab both you and your device," explained the first guy, grabbing one of the tongs, which held a flat cotton disc. "I just need you to show me the edge of the medical device."
"Sure." I rolled over the edge of my pants, so that the end of the vibrator was showing, the part that controls the speed. In the process, the little dial turned up a notch, so that the buzzing was now audible.
He ran one of the cotton swatches over the vibrator, and the other one across my hand. He gave both of them to the big guy, who disappeared. "If these check out, then we'll just mark your ticket and you can be on your way," he said.
You know I was sweating cheeseburgers as I waited for the guy to return. We stood there awkwardly, while my crotch hummed a one-note tune. It was a muffled drone, like someone using a weed wacker in a neighboring township.
"You guys busy today?" I said, trying to be chatty.
"Yes," he said, still remaining absolutely professional.
"So," I responded, but then got distracted. I did, after all, have a vibrator down my pants. "So."
Finally, after several excruciatingly awkward minutes, the black guy showed up again and gave the all-clear sign. "You're free to go," said the TSA employee, leaving me to pack up my things in private. I took the opportunity to snap a few more hurried photos with my cameraphone:
And so I made it onto the plane with a vibrator stuffed down my pants. It's easy to be critical, to argue that terrorists could easily smuggle something inside the vibrator. But what are they going to do, take over the plane through threat of orgasm? "TAKE ME TO SRI LANKA, OR I WILL GIVE THIS FLIGHT ATTENDANT THE ULTIMATE PLEASURE! ALL HAIL ALLAH!"
One thing's for sure: if terrorists are going to start attacking us with vibrators, I won't mind them asking me to remove all my clothes at security. Bring it on, al Queda.
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