I am strongly ambivalent about people touching my junk.  To tell you the truth, I do not really think of my privates as “junk” anyway.  Junk is what we store out of sight or give to those guys in the big trucks.  Thanks, but I’ll keep mine close in case I need it.

But back to touching. Ask to touch my junk and we can negotiate.

Unspecified Authority Figure: “If I don’t touch your junk, the western half of the United States will explode.”

Me: “Which half again?”

Or maybe this one:

Bevy of Hooters Girls: “We need to touch your junk.”

Me: “OK.”

I would walk through airport security naked and painted purple if I really thought it would save lives.  However, and here is the important part, some people would not.  Furthermore, they told the TSA they would not and they didn’t.  They did so by driving (apparently up 12% from last year) or staying home (see my last blog).

The TSA stepped in a cow pile by assuming that Americans would simply comply with whatever hare-brained scheme they concocted.  What is shocking is not so much the search protocol itself, but that no one bothered to ask whether we would go along.  It is as if a bureaucratic entity created by Congress could make rules with the force of law to which the public had little or no input.

Hey, wait a minute.  That describes all government agencies.  So what do we do when faced by such arbitrary authority?  We opt out.  The press, fickle and dense as always, is calling Opt-Out Day a major flop.  They don’t get it.  We had smooth sailing Wednesday because the TSA knew they had better get busy scraping off their boots.  The wonderful thing is, no one got hurt, no one burned anything down, and life pretty much went on as usual.  It is high time we opted out of a few other things.

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Terry went through security naked and purple once.  Not one person touched his junk.