Dear TSA agent,
I get so lonely during the Holiday Season. Being a single young man, my private parts need to be fondled, groped and violated by another human being for the sheer variety of it. Being socially awkward, I am not known for my prolific flings but when I get them I make them count. Trust me, I provide a quick and painful, in a good way, pleasure that leaves us both with a smile on our faces. That is why I am contacting you TSA agent, you are my muse, my flame and I long for you as a New Jersey native craves a tanning bed. This holiday season I have purchased plane tickets so I can see you. Oh, TSA agent, I so crave your firm but loving touch.
I will stand on line with my fellow travelers, I will opt out of the full body scanner because I am not a tease, I like to get right to the point; foreplay is a dirty word. I will be pulled aside for our date with destiny, my legs and groin will be quivering in anticipation. This is will be the moment I have been waiting for, that is why I take my shirt off, cover myself in whip cream, lay out the scented candles and play some Barry White to set the mood. I know your higher ups disapprove of this activity but my love knows no boundaries and respects no authority!
Ah, then you will come waddling towards me; all five hundred pounds of you in a gelatinous mass of goo that shifts like the tides of the ocean. You will stand in front of me, blocking all the light, and tell me to spread my legs. Here it comes!
You will bend down and pat down my legs, both left and right, slowly moving up but never quite reaching my unmentionables. You tease! You will then feel under my testicles, moving towards my penis and the rest of my glorious groin area. Oh baby, you excite me better than that five dollar an hour hooker waiting for me in Shanghai. Since I have come into your life minus the shirt, I have made your job easier. No bombs to set the friendly skies aflame can be concealed by my shirtless abdomen. Oh, I’m sorry, you’re a diabetic and you cannot be tempted by the sugary goodness of whipped cream. I guess you can keep your tong in that black hole you call a mouth
Hopefully, you have seen something you like and invite me back to your taxpayer funded flop-house for some more good ‘ol fashion lovin’. If not, that’s fine too. After groping so many Nuns and five year old children you have the touch of an angel and the passion of a pedophile I will not soon forget.
You may look like Jabba The Hutt and be a blue shirted rent-a-cop drunk on power, but I think you get a bad rap. Even though you and your fellow minimum wage tyrants have not prevented one single terrorist attack I’m sure you are keeping America safe. Because I listen to our butch Homeland Security chief, Janet Napolitano, I know all intelligent terrorists are going to walk right through airport security with a big bomb bulging right out of their pants. Why wouldn’t they? If you say so, you want the terrorists to win and you want everyone to not be safe. I listen to our ever honest government and it would never lie to me, after all, my taxes are a tribute of love! You have just a good of chance of dying from the radiation from the porno-scanners as you do from dying from an airborne bomb but I do not let so-called facts get in the way. No, I follow what our leader say as scripture because they are the idols we all strive to be, power hungry and ready to profit from the public treasury.
As the holidays come closer and my love for you grows stronger everyday I sit here and write to you, my love. Even though many miles, the walls of JFK airport and massive doses of radiation separate us, it feels as if we are here together consummating our love. If you have any reservations as to violating my privacy, even though I doubt you do, remember this: you cannot violate anything if it’s invited. You, my tyrant lover with the blue shirt and a belt size roughly the size of Jupiter’s equator, will be there for me when I opt out. You will give me a ‘love pat’ and I will leave with a smile on my face and sticky pants.
Sincerely yours,
Jimmy
P.S.: You can touch my junk anytime, baby!
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