Well, I'm still stinging from the Great Earring Debacle, but it could have been a lot worse...this from Drudge:
Mid-flight sexual play lands US couple afoul of anti-terrorism lawThe overheated couple are charged with "obstructing a flight attendant and with criminal association." Criminal association...I'm wondering exactly what that applies to...the association between the He and She or the association between Them and the flight attendant or the association between He and Her Crotch.
A couple's ill-concealed sexual play aboard a Southwest Airlines flight from Los Angeles got them charged with violating the Patriot Act, intended for terrorist acts, and could land them in jail for 20 years.
According to their indictment, Carl Persing and Dawn Sewell were allegedly snuggling and kissing inappropriately, "making other passengers uncomfortable," when a flight attendant asked them to stop.
"Persing was observed nuzzling or kissing Sewell on the neck, and ... with his face pressed against Sewell's vaginal area. During these actions, Sewell was observed smiling," reads the indictment filed by the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
While this seems much more like a subplot in the magnificent Charlie Sheen vehicle Two-and-a-Half Men than a reason to call out the G-Men, it calls into question a bigger issue. On my last flight Monday evening, I saw people clearly eyeballing my earrings...what if I had made my fellow passengers uncomfortable? What if a flight attendant had insisted that I amputate my ear with one of those TSA-approved plastic forks or face the HRT when I got off the plane? Maybe the best thing to do would be to start wearing a keffiyeh, something like the pix above, except in blue, to set off my eyes. Plus, I'll be a big hit at the next Congressional Sportsmens Foundation event in D.C....I'll probably be offered a job as a Democratic Congressional staffer! Whoops...then I'd really ave to watch my ass, so to speak...
2 comments:
I hope the bad guy in FTG wears earrings.
The bad guy in FTG wears very expensive suits and has a matched pair of Russian bodyguards...from Chapter 13 (just after the hot sex stuff):
The back door of the Escalade, which appeared to have more doors than one of those clown cars in the circus, opened and the big SUV disgorged a whole posse of suits, including David—“Just call me Davey”—Crockett, campaign manager and one-time used car magnate…”A coonskin cap for the kiddies and a caddy for the little lady.” Rumor was he’d bought up every single piece of videotape that featured his head in proximity to anything remotely racoonish; these days, he was given to Levis, hand-woven sweaters, a huge database of Internet campaign contributors and an army of blog weasels, just waiting to be unleashed on the politically unsuspecting.
Davey was followed by, oh joy, Assistant Chief Armando Clement—proving categorically that my karma was still on a roll—and a suit I didn’t recognize. Just when I thought the car was running out of clowns, it popped two more, obviously a matched set. The first stepped out with endless amount of leg, all lean muscle and pale skin right on up to her thigh. She folded out of the car with a fluid grace that practically screamed dancer, then stepped lightly to the side while the other matched piece crawled out. They could have been salt and pepper shakers, if you’d been buying your table accoutrements in Vladivostok. Twins, a speck taller than Anna’s five-foot-seven, both with the milky pale skin, watery blue eyes, white blond hair and the look of absent distain of long-expatriated Russian royalty. They took two graceful steps to flank the suit I didn’t know, then went still, four blue eyes flickering back and forth, scanning like the velociraptors in Jurassic Park.
Behind me, I felt, rather than heard, Anna click on. I know, I know…strange-o, but I don’t know any other way to describe it. One minute she’s off in Anna World; the next she’s 100 percent here, with all her defenses up and phasers set to barbeque. Neat trick. Without looking, I knew she’d be moving laterally, opening up the fields of fire. The blonde velociraptors tracked her with their heads. Better talk, Kashi, before everything went all O-K Corral for no apparent reason.
“Hi guys,” I said, once again exercising my uncanny ability for conversation. “What’s up?”
“Are those things loaded?” Governor-to-Be James asked, nodding toward the gun on my hip.
“Yep,” Anna said, “but don’t worry. We never shoot anyone on Sunday. Blue laws and all.”
“She thinks she’s a laugh riot,” said Assistant Chief Clement.
SO THER YOU ARE...proof positive I'm writing...albeit slowly!!!!
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