"I like pudding" you
spout inanely, prompted by the smell of Tapioca. You brace for the blow
that's surely coming, but the stereotypically grizzled airport security
guy is giving you a measured look. Slowly he releases his grip on your
shirtfront.
"I… Like coffee," He says meaningfully. What the hell is going on here?
Your first impulse is to demand an explanation, but your first impulses
have a long history of resulting in wedgies, swirlies, pinkbellies,
Indian burns and prison rape. You figure if Mr. Airport Security wants
to play phrase association, what the hell?
"I like… Tea; I like… the Java Jug and it likes me." You tell him in the
same subtexty type manner he used.
"Boston Tea Party!" He shouts back.
"Boston Baked Beans!" You respond gamely.
"Beans, beans, the magical fruit!" He insinuates.
"The Magic Flute by Mozart!" You quip.
"Rose Art!" He shoots.
"SEVENTY-TWO COLORED PENCILS!!" you sing at the top of your lungs
"The constipated man and the mathematician BOTH WORK IT OUT WITH A
PENCIL!!" He bellows.
"The Official Fantastic Four Movie 'Thing' costume looks like an
anthropomorphic, orange lump of impacted POO!!" you howl.
"Oh my GOD, it so
does!" he shrieks like a Japanese schoolgirl. "Unfortunately that's the
wrong answer, so I'm afraid you'll have to spend the rest of your life
in solitary confinement in a naval brig with only the knowledge that
arbitrarily curtailed human rights are a surprisingly effective shield
against terror to keep you warm at night, 'cause we don't give blankets
to enemy combatant scum like you."
