Thanks, Buddy

If you haven't heard yet, some crazy tried to b--w himself up on an airplane again.  (I'm just a little bit concerned I'll be put on a government watchlist for including that word on my blog- ed.)  So now they're tightening up security again.

At some point in the near future we won't be allowed to wear any clothes on the plane. 
They'll have us shackled spread-eagle to the walls of the airplane, naked and shaven.  The least frustrating way to get to a different continent will be to rip the bathtub out of your bathroom, strap it on top of the family Canyonero, drive to the ocean, pull the engine out of the SUV and install it in the bathtub, and sit in armpit-deep gasoline as you putt across the Atlantic at 13 MPG.

(This is assuming you don't have to get past Somalia.  At that point the Boeing-o'-humiliation will be a better choice.  The pirates have bigger bathtubs, even if yours is powered by an American-built V8.)

I haven't made up my mind yet, but I'd almost rather die a quick death via pentaerythritol than sit through a transatlantic flight without that little fuzzy blanket they used to give you, back in the old days, last week.  Airplanes are cold!  You'd think the TSA, of all bureaucracies, would know that.  Maybe Mr. Abdulmutallab was just trying to get warm.