The Washington Times - October 6, 2008, 10:54PM

I like flying.

Well, not the actual flying so much. The seats are cramped, the bathrooms are scary, and the airlines provide fewer accommodations than the Japanese did for POWS during the Bataan Death March.


No, I like going through security. Really. For me, it’s always an adventure.

I always seem to raise the suspicions of the TSA inspectors, and I’m amused by the idea that someone would find me dangerous.

There’s just something about me, I guess. The metal detector always buzzes whenever I walk through, no matter how much I empty my pockets or how much clothing I remove.

I once went through barefoot in a Speedo and set off the alarm. It’s like I have a metal plate in my head or something.

So of course, I always have to get the “extra” inspections, which kinda remind me of some dates when I was in my 20s — the hand-held wand wave, the full-body pat-down, the mandatory strip search, the optional cavity examination.

Then it’s time for the post-inspection cigarette.