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Old 03-28-2003, 09:59 AM   #42
12clicks
12clicks should edit this
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Quote:
Originally posted by Bree

One thing though, is that my daughter and I got picked for security checks -- I think it most likely due to the fact that we had one way tickets. Anyway, we spent an hour in a "secure area." I was not too happy. I did object to my daughter being searched as she is only 12 and as it turns out they are not allowed to search children 12 and under. Even so, it was a bit traumatic for her.. her comment was "Mom, I'm a cheerleader not a terrorist. Can't they see that?" Poor Munchkin!!!
This post hits the nail right on the head for me. At the current time, I refuse to do any extra air travel while Americans are treated like this.
As long as the government and airlines pretend that they can't tell the difference between a 12 yr old and a terrorist, I'll not spend my money on air travel.
fuck them.
The only people hijacking planes are muslims. Find them, pull them out of line, and make their lives miserable.
Leave 12 yr olds, grandmothers, mothers, american business men, and other obviously harmless people alone.

That said, I'm not afraid to travel because of terorrism, war, or anything else. I'm just accustomed to being treated a certain way (and that includes with respect) and refuse to patronize businesses who don't treat me this way because they lack common sense.
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The details of my life are quite inconsequential.... very well, where do i
begin? My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from
Belgium with low grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a fifteen
year old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize, he would drink. He would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark.Sometimes he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy. The sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical. Summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds- pretty standard really. At the age of twelve I received my first scribe. At the age of fourteena Zoroastrian named Vilma ritualistically shaved my testicles. There really is
nothing like a shorn scrotum... it's breathtaking- I highly suggest you try it.
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