My turn came up. I have skin cancer, so I wanted to skip the porn scanner. I explained this to the agent and he sent me to Mark Tate, the TSA one-striper who would pat me down and feel me up first.
Which he did.
Then he stuck his rubber gloves under a machine that made a loud beep.
Red flag. My clothes were apparently infested with explosive residue. I explained that I was a hunter, and that I wasn’t surprised.
Mr. Tate then called his supervisor, two-striper Christopher Anderson, who told me that the explosive residue meant that I had to get a more thorough pat-down, this time complete with a genital check, in a closed room.