Really, why's everybody getting so hot and bothered by the Transportation Sexcurity Administration's make-out artists?

What's a little heavy groping on behalf of the United States of America and the republic for which it stands?

To complete a recent security pat-down I was asked by the sexcurity agent to check into the honeymoon suite of a nearby hotel. Lovely accommodations but this is no way to overcome a deficit.

The TSA agent was a romantic at heart, promising me three long-stemmed dandelions, a 25 percent off coupon at Pat-Downs R Us, and a commemorative postcard from a destination to be named later.

What a petting zoo.

Obviously, there were awkward moments galore-I never understood what the penguins were for; hip waiters, I guess-as her TSA badge shone, star-like, in the dim glow of the hotel room's plasma television tuned into Homeland Security Gone Wild-The Thanksgiving Break Edition.

To get us in the mood, she explained regarding our TV viewing, making the world safe for democracy and everything else.

Stripping naked simply to ensure a flight to Akron or Toledo seems slightly over done and less than half-baked but the law is the law.

Honestly, I never went this far on a date in high school.

Nowhere near Toledo.

Or even college, for that matter.

Try as I might, Akron was never in sight.

But the TSA demanded satisfaction and, trust me, I was in no position to deny them.

Nor, admittedly, was I smart enough to suggest to any of my dates all those many decades ago that a TSA security pat-down might be better than a drive-in movie.

Nice work if you can get it.

Imagine being paid by the federal government to go patriotically frisky all over people like a rabid octopus on steroids.

And the full body scans.

Wait until the pay-per-view channels get a hold of this.

Fortunately, I had the side-street smarts to ask my Transportation Sexcurity Administration agent for some wallet-sized photos and an artist's rendition in case it goes viral on the internet. Plausible deniability comes in handy.

But she smiled sweetly and told me to go to the XXX-Ceptional Security website and get the pictures online like everybody else.

Dial me up high-speed and broad-band me till the cows come home, but they didn't even serve nuts and soda on the flight, once we became airborne, my TSA agent swearing she had to accompany me to Akron or Toledo to do the disembarking pat-down, too.

Once on the ground, we checked into the Sub-Par 10, a motel chain that doesn't even have a chain.

A chain on the door, I mean, much less a honeymoon suite, not unless you count that little alcove at the end of the first floor where they keep the ice-maker, the snack machine, and the strange utensils.

The place was crawling with TSA agents and poor harried travelers asking for wallet-sized photos and one deluded soul who thought he was getting his pat-down search on Blue-Ray DVD.

I'm sure it's the only way his wife would believe that's what it took to get to Passaic, New Jersey.

For me, well, my TSA agent was finally convinced that no weapons were concealed about my person.

But by then we'd landed in Omaha, after stop-overs in Boise, San Antonio, and Wabash, with plans later that night, she said, for Grand Rapids.

And I can't even remember why I went to the airport.

If you see me on a runway somewhere some day, please just take me home.