Hands All Over

So, it appears the irresistible force of Americans’ desire for a sterile, antiseptic security state to keep them vacuum-sealed and safe from the slightest threat of harm from evildoers has run headlong into the immovable object of our longstanding Puritanical hangups about nudity and genitalia. This promises to be quite entertaining.

Presidents claiming sweeping new powers to detain and/or execute anyone accused of terrorism without supplying evidence or providing a trial? Yawn, skritch skritch, pass the remote. Security guards making sure I don’t have a bomb stuffed down my urethra, giggling at pictures of my microphallus and man-boobs? Git mah musket, Martha, it’s revolution time!

Ah, well, “Don’t touch my junk!” doesn’t quite rouse the liberty-loving soul in the same way as classics like “Give me liberty or give me death!”, but you go to war against the police state with the slogans you have, not the ones you wish you had.