I once wrote about my airport fugitive moment. The TSA must have it in for me because they nabbed me this time. A couple of weeks ago I was flying out of Detroit to Las Vegas. I had yet another memorable moment.

You see, the week before the flight I had finally decided to get "legal" in regards to my motorcycle endorsement. I have been riding forever without the State's endorsement stamp. To get this government approval to ride I had taken the prerequisite beginner's bullshit class in order to get my blue paper that becomes an endorsement upon my license after passing the silly written test:

When you see a red light, you should

a) accelerate faster
b) grab the brakes and skid
c) do nothing
d) safely come to a stop

Why did I all of a sudden get legal? A few things. First, I have only been approached by police once while on a bike, and that was when I was plowed into, from the rear, by a 92-year-old man at a stoplight. I received no shakedown on the endorsement issue, but that was 20 years ago.

These days, fellow riders are telling me that the cops are getting pricky over the endorsement stamp. It's still unclear whether or not tickets can be issued--it depends on the source. All summer long we ride often over the border (in Canada), where the riding is terrific, and rumors are that the Canucks like to confiscate Michigan bikes that don't belong to State-endorsed riders. Lastly, I tried to do a fly-and-ride last year, out West, and they won't rent Harleys out to anyone without an endorsement.

So when I passed my test, the Motor Vehicle Bolsheviks cut the corner of my license, and in Michigan that means your license has changes and is considered "temporary" until the new one arrives in the mail.

That cut corner cost me. At the airport, Miss Fat Butch TSA, in the security line, looks at my license, asks about the cut, and I 'splained. She barked, "Ok, we gotta send ya over for a further security check." Uhh, because of a cut on my license? So I'm sent over to Mr. Brushcut Junior and Fat Butch #2. Brushcut Junior was nearly shorter than me, and puffing his chest trying to fill Mr. Big Man Uniform. A real twit this kid was. So they sent me to this box area, where Butch #2 is literally dragging her palm up my thighs, and down my back onto my ass. I made a pointed remark, or two, which will not be repeated here. I know it was the death sentence--to say anything to these wannabees--but no way, no how, or under any circumstances can I stand there and allow myself to be one of their daily feedings of braindead sheeple, taking it as they dish it.

The Brush Cut Twit, pulling apart every last bit of my carry-on, told me to stay quiet. I needled him as the Butch was dragging her hands all over me. She barked, "Ma'am, do you want a private search area? We can provide that if you are more comfortable with that." I said "Nope, actually, I'd be worried to go into a private room with either of you. Let's just get this dog-and-pony show over so we can all pretend we are sooo much safer."

"Okay, that's it," snapped The Twit. "One more remark from you ma'am and we are taking action."

"Oh hey, action--woa, now there's a scary thought."

Twit dropped my carry-on and just stared me down. He stared and stared and stared. And I just smiled. He stared for what seemed like 30 seconds, apparently in disbelief that someone, anyone would not buckle at this "authority," and instead, mock it.

All said and done, after inspecting my purse and carry-on, I ended up going through security with a neat, little fold-up utility knife that I always forget I have, tucked very neatly into a side pocket in my purse, like it has been on every flight I've taken since 2000. I don't take it purposely; it is a do-all utility thing I always carry, and always forget to remove prior to flying.

And I still have that thing. Rest assured, we are all safe thanks to the TSA.