Ammo Grrrll titles her column this week COME FLY WITH ME, but she’s not talking about “far Bombay” or “llama land” or “Acapulco Bay,” and “weather-wise” the destination is iffy. She’s flying to the Twin Cities. She writes:
Even before Ebola, Ammo Grrrll only flew under extreme duress. Funerals. Emergencies with sick parents. For business, I have driven from Minnesota to West Virginia, Maryland, and Texas. I enjoy long road trips. There is nobody to complain when you play the same Toby Keith disc for 3 hours, followed by Brahms’ Second Piano Concerto and then The Best of Bread ($1.99 in a bin). Eat your heart out, Brahms. Here comes “Baby, I’m-A Want You”.
Flying itself is wretched enough, but nowadays the TSA Experience begins the fun. It apparently is my karma always to be singled out for the full wanding and gunpowder residue tests on my hands. Tests I am terrified I am going to flunk because of the frequency of my shooting, despite Lady Macbeth-level scrubbing.
But who could blame TSA for culling me out when you consider the many hijackers who have been short women comics born the same year as Cher and Dolly Parton? Just as long as we don’t “profile”; that’s all I care about. And what the hell is “profiling” anyway, but the rational practice of giving extra scrutiny to those most likely to commit a particular offense? Why is that wrong? I would hope that when a white serial rapist is loose, that the police don’t waste valuable time and resources investigating a lot of black women.
And why the heck couldn’t that jackass shoe bomber have put the bomb in his hat instead of his shoe so that we all have to take off our shoes now for the next umpteen years? I forget what religion the guy was – Episcopalian, maybe? Not that his religion was relevant in any way. Motive unknown. Again. Probably toilet-trained too early or something.
Part of my problem with flying is that I have an insufficient faith in both gravity and engineering. I believe that the only reason the plane stays aloft is the exertion of my massive will. If I let my guard down even for an instant, it could spell disaster! The other passengers so seldom indicate the slightest gratitude for my vigilance. A nod, a salute, would be nice.
I try to use points to bump up to First Class because if the plane does go down, at least I will be having a free drink. My last flight I had picked up the mail on my way to the airport and had my latest issue of American Rifleman. When I got to the airport, I bought People in order to lower my IQ by 30 points and also to hide my gun magazine inside it away from TSA’s prying eyes as they pawed through my carry-on after the traditional wanding.
Seated next to me on the plane was a sweet, clean-cut young man who looked in frank disbelief at the (late, late) middle-aged lady reading NRA’s magazine while enjoying an adult beverage. He grinned, handing me a business card, and informed me proudly that he designed and sold moving targets for a living, mostly to police training facilities. What are the chances? We talked guns n’ ammo all the way to Minneapolis.
The festive bumper stickers on the first car picking up a passenger outside Lindbergh Terminal were for gun control, Diversity (Celebration of), the late Paul Wellstone, the lame losers Kerry/Edwards, and Obama/Biden. Twice. And the despicable Edwards wasn’t even scratched out! Was this lady driver against anything, you ask? I mean, since she obviously was fine with a man cheating on his dying wife, making a baby, denying the baby’s existence until caught, and exploiting rich old doddering campaign donors? Well, yes, as a matter of fact she was “Already against the next war.” You know, to save time.
Ah, the Twin Cities, just as I remember them. Come for the windchill; stay for the brain-dead politics. C’mon, Minnesota: surprise us this Tuesday! See how many Republican ballots you can find in the trunks of your cars.