TSA touched my junk

So I finally drew the short straw in the security line. That is to say, I'd made it all the way to the front, my belongings where in the machine, but before I could walk through the gate, the guy manning the full-body scanner called me over. I was fairly annoyed, since I'd specifically chosen not get in his line and he probably wouldn't have noticed me if there hadn't been a hold up in both my line and his.

Naturally, this happens to me not, say, on my trip to St Louis, where I arrived at Midway with an hour to kill, but my trip away, where my ride failed to show and I was dropped off by my brother-in-law right before my flight began to board. (No surprise there, really; I flew a half-dozen times with an expired ID once and STL was the only place where anyone noticed.) So as I stood there listening to Sargent Gruff bark into his walkie-talkie over and over "I've got a male opt out here" with no sign that anyone was heeding him, it was a strain to keep a civil tongue.

Then the guy they finally got was a terrible mumbler, which is bad because part of the full pat down process is to explain every step before it happens and--apparently--obtain consent at critical points. I say "apparently", because soon I was saying "yes" to whatever came out of Officer Mumbles' mouth just to move the damn process along. He was as professional about it as possible, but there's no getting around what an invasive procedure it is; I can see how it would be intolerable for anyone with any kind of physical violation triggers.

I was literally the last paying customer to board the airplane (right after me was a pilot flying standby) meaning I was squeezed in between a large fleshy man and a polite sleeper who also hogged the armrest about six rows away from my second carryon. All the more reason to take the train next time I have to go to St Louis. Terrorists have attacked them, too, but you could still carry on a duffel bag of explosives if you wanted to.