By Sukie de la Croix

The downside of body piercing is that you may have problems getting through airport security, a fact recently discovered by 37-year old Mandi Hamlin, who set off alarms while attempting to board a flight in Lubbock, Texas. Although Hamlin has multiple piercings, it was her nipple rings that blipped on the hand-held metal detector, and that’s where Ms. Hamlin’s nightmare began. Members of the Transportation Security Administration, a unit of Homeland Security, set up after the 9/11 attacks, asked her to go behind a screen and remove her nipple rings with pliers,­ much to the amusement of the federal airport screeners she heard snickering like schoolboys.

In their defense the TSA say that women carrying bombs in “sensitive areas” on their body is on the rise, and there have been cases of “bra bombs.” And so my “conspiracy theory” is correct: That the 9/11 bombers were Islamic transvestites wearing drop-pearl earrings, pencil-line skirts slit to the waist, Victoria’s Secret wireless bras and no panties. Except their bras did have wires and fake detonator nipples. It gives a whole new meaning to the phrase “Blond Bombshell.”

Airport security is a bit of a nightmare for those, like myself, who are pierced in the edible regions—I remember when you could sail through an airport and they didn’t even notice you were pierced. Thank G-d! Mother Theresa of Calcutta isn’t alive today, or the TSA would ask her to remove her pierced clitoris barbells, all three of them. The pious nun standing behind a screen lifting up her sackcloth and spreading her legs while yanking metal rods out of her pussy with pliers adds nothing to the dignity of a holy woman known for fishing sick pagan babies out of the Ganges with her bare hands.

Of course, as always, there’s one law for the rich and one for the poor, as certain dignitaries aren’t screened at all, claiming diplomatic immunity, which is why you never hear anything about Dick Cheney’s labia piercing or Condoleeza Rice’s Prince Albert.

All this talk of female terrorists and suicide bombers plays into my primal fears: Some people are scared of flying, others of snakes, but me…I am terrified of women exploding into balls of flame. Since childhood I’ve had nightmares about a woman perched on a barstool sipping a Molotov cocktail and smoking a Russian cigarette. Mmm! I wonder where that came from. Can you spell…M.O.T.H.E.R.? But don’t get me started on that.

This fear is so ingrained in me that I truly believe the string on a tampon is a fuse. Even without the Molotov cocktail, I panic when a woman lights a cigarette, as it could ignite her Aqua Net. Zap! Bang! Pow! All of a sudden silicone breasts are airborne and I’m in hospital for the rest of the day having Stick-On nails removed from my face.

I’m OK when women are calm, but when they get angry I start to panic, which is why I can’t support Hilary Clinton—the woman is a demonic hag who screeches violently out of the TV screen until her eyes bleed and I have to duck and cover in case she explodes into a ball of burning sulfurous gas.

It’s not that I’m a misogynist. I love women who don’t explode. I’m even endorsing a woman-of-color for president: Marge Simpson. Yellow is the new black. Anyone who says, “You should listen to your heart, and not the voices in your head,” deserves to rule the world.

Email Sukie de la Croix at delacroix@chicagofreepress.com.