Flight Security

My daughter Fiona and her husband Paul are flying Ron and I to Scotland to visit them in September. Though that is six months away I have my suitcase out and partly packed already. Not going to take too much over, their christmas presents and a limited wardrobe for the trip. Have to leave room for the Scottish yarn I will no doubt be bringing back! Clearly I am excited to be going but there is one part I really hate.....security. I have numerous metallic body parts.Guess I am a sort of bionic woman, only I can't run fast or jump buildings or any of that. No, my metal infrastructure simply is to set off security alarms. Dr even gave me a cute little laminated card that informs the airport that I have knee replacements. Does that help anything? No.No No. I am quickly pulled aside for the safety of the other travelers. Really would hate to scare the bored businessman and the sleepy college students and the furtive terrorists.
On prior trips I chose the full body scan. Just step in the booth and be irradiated. Who cares if I will glow in the dark if I travel too much. But, alas, most airports do not have scanners. What they do have are female security guards. These women snap on their rubber gloves loudly. They no not smile. They do not have a sense of humor.They do have huge breasts. You heard me, they have huge breasts. Normally this is not a problem. I rarely notice other women's breasts, but these women are really big breasted and apparently the airport approved method of a security pat down involves the guard to stand facing the terorist threat face to face, steely eyes boring into the eyes of the dangerous grandmothers. They pat down my arms.They squeeze my waist. They lift and fondle my breasts (obviously under my aa cup boobs I have tried to hide my shotgun). They go up and down my legs then between my legs while never breaking eye contact. Then the back must be checked. Wouldn't you think they would just ask you to turn around? No they take a step closer. Did I mention that all these big breasted women are rather short with correspondingly short arms? They then reach around me from the front to pat down my back, massive mammary glands squished against me as they stretch to reach mid-back. If I was any shorter myself I might be smothered by those giant mamas. This is the point where I learned that they do not have any sense of humor. At Heathrow I made kissy sounds and asked her if it was good for her too. Do not attempt to do this if you are so fondled, er frisked. They will call more guards. These will be large men. I repeat. Make no attempt at humor.
In September I vow to make no cute comments while beeing fondled but I was wondering how it would go over if I taped a valentine card to my back for my frisker to find. What do you think?