Tales of Airport Security (c) Harry Shearer

Harry may have copyrighted the title, but the story is all mine.
Sons of bitches! Idiotic, bureaucratic, ridiculous damned airport rulemakers have deprived me of one of my very favorite things.
A very long time ago when dinosaurs roamed the earth, my brother gave me a very incredibly cool little Swiss army knife. It was red, with the Swiss army insignia - not one of those hideous pink 'Ladies' knives. It had a little knife, scissors and nail file. Teeny tiny, but oh so useful!
Those sons of bitches took my Swiss army knife. Jesus tapdancing Christ!
Look at me. Not bad for my age. Sport a sort of bohemian fashion, but more hippie than burhka. I'm reading The Economist. Note to airport screeners - NO terrorists read The Economist. You can bank that.
Anyhow, with minutes remaining before the plane herding ritual, I am given an ultimatum. Go all the way back out of Security, mail it to myself from that post office waaaaaaay down there, and come back through Security, or give it to him.
"Grrrrr," I growl. I picture my suicide tape, hippie bandana tied around my head, pledging that killing this guard with my teeny tiny little Swiss army knife will improve airport travel for my fellow Americans.
But I stop. By the time I kill him, all those 15 year old National Guard kids armed to the teeth with rifles will riddle me full of holes ten times over.
"Grrrrr."
I surrender my weapon, but only because I intend to be an attractive corpse.