Kentucky Violations


You  probably saw the post title and are thinking, “OK, who did Wendy violate this year?” No, this post isn’t about that. Although, perhaps there were a few violations…. more on that in a later post.

I haven’t updated in forever, but I wanted to give a quick shoutout to the TSA. Oh, gubbamint, you so crazy. I’ve just returned from Kentucky, where an awesome time was had, and I didn’t even get any restraining orders. Yet. But, what I did get was overly fondled by the TSA. Let me explain.

So Sarah so kindly dropped me off at the airport, where I arrived sweaty and a hot mess. I mean, that’s typical for me, but I did just sit outside in the sun and watch horsey things. I smelled like a pile of hot garbage, so before I checked in, I went to the bathroom and changed into some cute Kastel athletic pants, washed my face, applied perfume and jammed. You might notice I did not change my shirt, as I changed that before we even got out of the horse park parking lot. Because that’s how I roll.

ANYWAY, so I started to go through security, secure that I smelled better and was presenting a better view and aroma to the world. And then I went through the scanner. I spread those legs and put those hands above my head like a whorish champ. My three seconds of violation were up, and I stepped out onto the mat, ready to move on about my day. But wait, there’s more.

Suddenly, TSA dude said, “There’s an anomaly in the crotch area. Please step to the side.”

It took everything in my power not to scream “THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID.” Instead, I looked over at the display. And there was the crotch area on the little person outline, lit up like a red beacon of glory for all to see.

I looked down at my pants.

Then back to the display.

Then down at my pants again. Puppy head cock.

Notice the link to the pants above. Those babies are tight. Ain’t nothing hiding in there. So I said, “If you can find anything in there, I’ll give you a dollar.”

Radio silence, and I was probably being mentally added to a list right there. Instead, a woman came over and explained the exact manner in which she was going to violate me. First, hands down the hips to warm me up, palms toward me. Then my ass. Then the front of my thigh. Then the back of her hands for my inner thighs, and then the glory area.

I don’t know why TSA thinks that being touched with just the back of the hand somehow makes it less violate-y. You’re still touching me in a manner inconsistent with the Lord’s word and will. It’s not natural. I mean, it’s practically latex-glove-fetish soft porn. Or something.

Then she asked if I was OK with this happening right there in front of everyone. I was waiting for Option Two to be mentioned, but I never heard it. WELL WHERE WOULD YOU BE TAKING ME? I had images of a back-alley TSA sex dungeon filled with rubber gloves, objects and a few leather-clad government folks. I had flashbacks to all my women’s safety and self defense classes that warn that being moved to a second location is often the kiss of death, so I decided to stay put and be publicly groped.

I was instructed to again spread’em and then put my arms out like a T, much like a gropey crucifixion. I was a martyr for airport travelers, getting sympathetic and also horrified looks from the rest of the travelers as she back-handed my sensitive areas. TSA lady went about her business very matter-of-factly, and then got to the glory area. She put a little more pressure and paused just a little too long there, like she thought if she pressed a button hard enough, an otter was going to pop out of my crotch and sing happy birthday to her. I mean, I can’t blame her, really. Everyone loves otters.

Just when I felt a single tear about to stream down my face out of utter humiliation and martyrdom, she looked again at the Rudolph the Red Crotch Reindeer scanner outline and then released me back into the wild of the airport. She didn’t even offer me a cigarette.

I collected my belongings, went to the restaurant and had two beers in quiet solitude to think about the life choices that brought me to that point. Was it my sweaty swamp ass that did it? Is my crotch hotter than most? Was it a sign from God?

Regardless of the reason, there’s one thing that’s certain: I left Lexington a little less innocent than when I arrived. And for once, it wasn’t because of me.