This is getting depressingly tedious, and I’m starting to think that “TSA” stands for “Terrorist: Squeeze his Ass.” With wallet, belt, keys, change, and all other things removed from my clothing, I still set off the detector in the See-You-Naked Machine, and the problematic area was the same as always: a yellow patch on my right buttock (or left; I can’t tell from the diagram). That earned me a full patdown, this time with the agent running his hands inside my waistband as well as groping both buttocks (“with the back of my hands”—does that make it better?) and running his hands inside my thighs from the knees to the groin. And they swabbed my hands for explosives. Of course they found nothing.
Now it’s 4:25 in the morning (I have a 6 a.m. flight) and, after buying a “blueberry” muffin and a coffee, I discovered that the muffin had exactly ONE blueberry in it. But I nommed it before I could photograph it. Now I will write a few posts and fume at the TSA. For the first time ever, I glared at the agent who was goosing me.