Dear Dirty America

He had an honest face.  What else could I say?

It was in the flagging days of Movember, and the after-effects of leftover Thanksgiving turkey sandwiches were still fresh on my mind.  Opiate to the mass, sort of thing.

Screening.  Watching, all ever present in that nationalistic gaze.  Dare you board our planes?  I’m the panopticonic coot keeping an eye out, watching your ass.  Gazing into your very soul as you awkwardly wait to step through the magnetic oscillating field.  “Metal detectors”, in your layperson parlance.  Terminology or no, thing is that we only need know when you dingle the fucking thing.  Usual sort of malarkey, necessitating the extra metallic-detecting wand (also terminological) or the odd pat-down.  Honestly, TSA guidelines only require us to pat a pect down if their pass has the randomized code – double S in the corner – or if you look fucking well suspicious.

And I suppose in retrospect he should’ve.  Tall, lean, bearded and swarthy.  Didn’t see the name on the stub – was only ancillary to the process, wanding the blipping folk on through.  Damndest thing, these things.  But only when they happen.  Fact is, most people are really pissed less about the outcome than the fact they’d been massively inconvenienced for about nothing.

Fools.  They don’t know the politics behind it all, the tip and scale of societal justice, held, fondled, and spun on the whim of mere badge-bearing mortal beings.  Aye.  I saw him.  Passed him on through.  Like the man said, t’was the height of Movember.  Hell, even I was sprouting stubble!

I blame the shites in Congress, honestly.  The guys scrolling back the hours, nibbling at the ends of our pay stubs.  A bearded man gets through the dyke; what can one say in this day and age against it?  In all sense of fair play, he made muster.  Who knew he could make a bomb out of gas and Drano?

Really, not my problem.  It’s Movember, and I need a solid scruff before December comes.

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