Flying the overly-friendly skies

One thing you can say about this whole TSA enhanced pat down mess: nobody will ever board Virgin Airlines again without ruefully grimacing. Folks are flipping out over new regulations requiring that fliers either submit to having their naughty bits exposed for all the world to see, or else agree to a groinal groping from whomever happens to be working airport security that day. At least buy me dinner first.

Most troublesome is not the compelling of passengers to slide into second base with complete strangers, but rather the suspicion these decisions are being made on the fly and with little forethought. Even flight crews are subjected to the same sub rosa muggings. Face it — you and I, we don’t know nothing, but even we can figure out pilots don’t need explosives up their butt to bring down an aircraft when a second double bourbon at the airport bar will suffice.

Equal representation under the glove would also be nice. VIPs are exempt from screening, but nobody will divulge who qualifies as a VIP — that’s classified. Isn’t everything? We’re in the thick of classified creep. How long before it’s illegal for civilians to videotape pat-downs due to “national security;” the federal equivalent of “Because I said so, that’s why.” Not to mention arresting so-called comedians for talking trash. “Don’t taze my junk, bro.”

Then again, 50 percent of the people experiencing the procedure are in favor of it. Must be part of the segment of society that enjoys having their inner thighs pawed and genitals, butts and breasts felt up. Me, not so much. I’ve had less intimate fifth dates.

The flying experience is in the throes of a death spiral, from the evaporation of our mixed nuts and pillows and checked baggage, to shedding shoes, surrendering fluids and providing peeks through our underwear to now being frisked like common criminals.

Where does it stop? How soon before we add body cavity searches to the casual molestations in our pre-flight checklists? What happens when some flippo-unit tries to blow something up with zipper shaped plastique? Will only the Amish fly? A single button bomb could result in us all wearing robes, and then the terrorists do win.

Until then, we fly the overly friendly skies and do whatever they want of us cattle and sheep: bend and cough and walk a little funny and act like nothing happened. More static and drool.

In the meantime, just direct me to whichever TSA screener didn’t volunteer for the job — and no ex-priests, if you please. I might even wriggle and giggle and blush and slip the man attached to the blue rubber glove a card. Hey, they’re intent on creeping us out, why not return the favor? One last question: are we supposed to tip, or only if there’s a happy ending?  The least they could do is provide a well-ventilated room for a post encounter cigarette.

Will Durst is a San Francisco based humor columnist who frequently tells jokes. Out loud. On stage. In front of people. Ideally. His new CD, “Raging Moderate,” is now available on iTunes and Amazon.