Fly? No. Thanks. I'm afraid. Not so much of terrorists. Or engine failures. Nor Marshalls with loaded weapons in pressurized cabins. Nope. It's the TSA screening I'm scared of. Firstly, I think I might have foot odor. Second, I don't profile well. I LOOK like someone who likes fire and enjoys blowing stuff up, because well, I do, but in mostly innocent ways. Also, I have lots of pockets. I like pockets. You never know when you'll need a dog treat or an aspirin, a blob of grease, or a firecracker. Or a serious pocketknife. And like most hoarders, its MY stuff, and I don't want to lose it, even if I don't know exactly what all it is. And like a ten-year-old, I can empty my pockets for a full ten minutes without ever finding what makes the detector beep. So, I'd get searched. Strip searched. And I might like it. And before you know it, I'd be working my way back to the head of the security line, missing my flight for a patdown. Soon I'd be one of those airline miles junkies who buy houses and cars with credit cards to get enough accumulated to fly to a European airport only to immediately reboard the plane, and fly back with two friskings under my belt. I'd know all the cavity specialists by name and have favorites, a notch on the handle of my carry-on for each experience. I'd be hopelessly hooked and homeless in an airport in Newark. And my family would find me and intervene, sending me to strip search rehab, and I'd have to memorize and live by the two-step program, and I would try, really try, but one night on the street two uniforms would walk by and one would ask a question I didn't hear, and the other would answer "Search me?", and I would fall to my knees and cry "NO... NO! Search MEEE!"
So. Don't ask me to fly. Besides, I don't have a passport. Or money.