I am the Very Model of a Modern Model Officer

I am the Very Model of a Modern Model Officer
(Sung to the tune of Gilbert and Sullivan’s I am the Very Model of a Modern Major-General.)
By Bud Koenemund

I am the very model of a modern Model Officer;
Each day I deal with passengers both fanciful and comical;
I know the checkpoint positions, and work through them rotational;
From the floor, up to baggage, out on Atlas; I can do it all.

I know the SOP backwards and forwards unequivocal;
I quote the book so often some will surely call me know-it-all;
I follow every rule, even ones seeming antithetical,
Obliged to satisfy all my leaders organizational.

I endeavor to keep my TIP score greatly astronomical,
While keeping watch for explosives both man-made and organical;
I advise people to divest large objects electronical,
And, when their laptops are discovered they are held responsible.

At AIT, I operate the scanner most methodical,
To complete screening of folks who rarely step in a shower stall;
My actions keep the country safe from forces diabolical,
As I pat down groins to find things not strictly anatomical.

I deliberate on amounts of liquids, gels, and aerosols.
Without remorse, I dispose of bottles containing alcohol;
I toss away peanut butter according to our protocol;
And, seize all weapons ranging from pocket knives up to cannonballs.

I screen dogs, and cats, and fish, and every kind of animal;
I stumble upon Coke, and Meth, and other drugs botanical;
While avoiding Personal Pleasure Devices mechanical;
Striving to make our bag searches invasively minimal.

I beg for OLC time, and computers operational,
Completing, and repeating, courses which fade quickly from recall;
And attend Training Department classes battling caffeine withdrawal;
While learning ways to counter every threat geographical.

I attempt to maintain sanity with comments sarcastical;
Questioning passenger’s excuses and stories fantastical;
Maneuvering precisely around people packed-in wall-to-wall;
And, every day I ask myself why do I put up with it all?

In truth, my time here has been nothing short of tragi-comical;
I’ve witnessed displays of stupidity that are phenomenal;
I’ll take my pay from TSA until I hit the Powerball;
I am the very model of a modern Model Officer.

Salvation

By Bud Koenemund

A 100 Word Story

Inspired by J.S.

  He found something almost religious in making a woman cum; something beyond her calling out to a deity who may or may not exist; beyond the sound of her breathing; the taste of her; the smell of her; the feel of her body. It was the look on her face as an orgasm consumed her – the purity; the erotic symmetry of pleasure and pain twisting her features – that promised salvation.
  Worshiping at her altar – knelt between her legs; his prayers kisses along inner thighs; fingers and tongue eliciting hymns of praise; bodies entangled – their holy spirits discovered ecstasy transcending flesh.

Confessions

By Bud Koenemund

A 100 Word Story

  Every eye in the hall turned to seek the source of the explosion of laughter filling the air. Their attention focused on the most beautiful woman in the room – suddenly the most beautiful woman in the world – clinging tightly to his right arm. Her smile, and the slowly fading giggles she struggled to control, ignited a fire in his soul, and proved that she was the right one for him.
  Just moments before, she’d leaned close and whispered, “I’m not wearing panties tonight.”
  He’d carefully considered this confession for a second, gazed into her eyes, and said, “Neither am I.”

Busted

By Bud Koenemund

A 200 Word Story

  The two agents sat side by side in a pair of dark leather chairs. The Director of the Office of Professional Responsibility frowned as he stared at them from behind an impressive, hand-carved, mahogany desk. Half a dozen Bureau lawyers, and the agents’ union representatives, filled the rest of the room.
  “Normally, we don’t care if co-workers conduct a consensual relationship; as long as it doesn’t become a detriment to job performance,” the Director said. “Though, we do try to discourage partners from dating.”
  “Sir,” one of the union reps began. “We recognize this situation…”
  “But,” the Director continued, cutting off his response, “this will, in all probability, result in a lawsuit for cruel and unusual punishment.”
  The lawyers nodded in an almost comical unison.
  “While we do acknowledge… an unfortunate equipment mix up… due to the agents being called into service after their office received a tip in the middle of the night,” another union rep offered, waving his hand toward the two, “these agents did manage to apprehend one of our ’10 Most Wanted’ fugitives.”
  “And, they brought him in,” the Director exploded, “wearing fuzzy pink handcuffs!”
  Agents, union reps, and lawyers fought to muffle their laughter.

Love

By Bud Koenemund

A 100 Word Exposition

  Love begins as the most perfect, pure thing in the whole world. Maybe in the entire universe. But, loving someone – even purely – is imperfect. Being loved by someone is imperfect. Doubt creeps in, weaving through every thought and action; playing tricks on the mind. Its shadow gathers – unnoticed, at first – ‘til trust and affection are obscured in darkness; strangled in a shroud of gloom.
  Once tarnished – its purity sullied – that perfection is lost forever. And, while love may be discovered again – may be tried and treasured – the heart knows its flaws. Still, despite contamination, our hearts long for love again.

Two Haiku

By Bud Koenemund

How Long?

How long does it take
to identify a face
you know like your own?


Forever

Someone tell my heart
Forever is a long time.
It won’t heed my brain.

Erased

By Bud Koenemund

Vows are only words;
powerless ‘gainst desire:
erased by passion.

Revelation

By Bud Koenemund

  He slouched on a park bench as heavy flakes of snow fell. Forcing his eyes open, he tried to watch them descend through the muted, yellow illumination of gaslights lining the walkway before him. The agony in his chest, however, made it difficult to focus on anything beyond taking the next breath.
  Blood trickled over his stomach in thin rivulets, soaking his shirt and pants. It dripped to the concrete below and quickly froze. Hearing movement behind him, he tried to turn, but a lightning bolt of pain ripped through his upper body.
  “Is that you, Yuri?” he asked the darkness.
  “Da,” a voice answered.
  “I figured it out,” he said. “Just too late.”
  “Always trust your gut,” Yuri said. “This is what you Americans say, is it not?”
  “I’ll remember that next time,” he said, with a laugh that devolved into a choking cough.
  “For you, my friend, I fear there will be no next time,” Yuri replied, taking a seat on the bench opposite his.
  He nodded, but remained silent for nearly a minute.
  “How did you find me?” he asked, finally.
  “This is your favorite place,” Yuri answered.
  His head lifted drunkenly.
  “How do you know that?” he asked.
  “Matthew,” Yuri clucked, “give me some credit, please.”
  He drooped at the sound of his real name.
  “We’ve learned much about you over the years,” Yuri assured him.
  Yuri stood and slowly approached him.
  “Perhaps it is fitting our little game ends here,” Yuri said, removing a pistol from his coat.
  Matt thought of the girl he’d kissed, right here on this bench – the first real kiss for both of them. Her face materialized in his mind: her curly red hair; striking blue eyes. He’d loved her, and told her so. She’d requited the sentiment. It was love before either truly knew what love is.
  “Goodbye…” Yuri began.
  Matt didn’t hear the shot. But, the thud of a large caliber bullet striking a human body, and the sickening sound of the air being forced out of Yuri’s lungs, was unmistakable. For a moment, a confused look twisted Yuri’s face. He staggered backward, his arms went limp, and he crumpled to the ground.
  “Goodbye, Yuri,” Matt wheezed.
  “You are a fool,” a female voice said.
  “I’ve never been accused of being very smart,” he said.
  “Letting him shoot you, though?” she mused.
  “Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time,” he joked.
  The woman stepped out of the shadows.
  “Hello, Lyla,” Matt groaned.
  “You Americans…” she said, “always so foolishly heroic.”
  “That’s us,” he agreed.
  “Hmmm… at least you helped us uncover the traitor,” she admitted.
  “You’re welcome,” he said.
  “You should get to the hospital before you bleed out,” Lyla advised.
  Three men joined them in the light. Without a word, they retrieved Yuri’s gun; then lifted his body and carried it away. Lyla followed them into the gloom.
  “Oh, no; don’t worry,” Matt called out; struggling to stand. “I can make it on my own.”

A Sunday DM

By Bud Koenemund

  Oh, boy! What a message (received on my Tumblr page: "What Are You Really Afraid Of?") to awaken to on a Sunday morning (well, OK, a Sunday early afternoon).

  As I read through this mess -- three times -- I was torn between simply ignoring it or wasting my time answering it. I decided I'd have to at least make an attempt.

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hairyforceone   What? Well there are some things. The imbalance of sexualities causing millions of people physically impossible of finding a relationship. These are mostly men. I know that you hate men and you would rather see them dying out than have any empathy for them. (Because you are cruel beings)
  There are no women left for men. There are too many lesbians who take up all the women leaving nothing behind for heterosexual men.    You transform the growing up generations into being more lesbian. Women seem to be more susceptible for these actions than men. This causes the imbalance. A lesbian couple means two men doomed to loneliness. And there are a shitload of lesbians.
  Now please educate me about how someone’s sexual identity cannot be changed by linking the RESEARCH where they identified WHAT gene or anything is what determines sexuality. Thank you.   So the rising number of lesbians among women could be a result of a more open society OR the successful propaganda your kind have made.   Luckily we have the opportunity to ask older women about their feelings whether or not now that they have the same freedom of choice as their younger counterparts if they want to live their inner lesbian feelings and leave their husbands or not.   They were not under gender and sexual propaganda when they were young so asking them would clearly resolve the issue of today’s rising lesbian numbers regarding the loudness of the lgbtqabcdefg+-/# propaganda. The last question remains, why do you want to change the world? Why do you want to cause harm to millions of heterosexual men by making millions of women incompatible with them? Why? Really why? I want to know why are you so heartless for ignoring literally half of humanity’s problems? What is the benefit of doing this? ------------------------------------------------------------------------------   Well, HairyForceOne; let's set the record straight: I don't hate men. I am a man. I am, in fact, a Straight man -- a fact I've never hidden on this blog. I'm Straight, but not narrow. As I'm sure I've made clear on this blog, I believe everyone should be who they are, and -- within age and consensual limits -- love who they love.
  My "propaganda" is education. It's knowledge and understanding gained during my years on this planet. My "kind," as you refer to me, accepts people who are different. I don't hate people simply because they love differently, or pray differently, or look different, or even if they root for the Yankees. (OK, maybe the Yankee thing is an exception.)

  You sound as if you believe women owe you sex: "There are no women left for men." "There are too many lesbians who take up all the women leaving nothing behind for heterosexual men." "A lesbian couple means two men doomed to loneliness." "Why do you want to cause harm to millions of heterosexual men by making millions of women incompatible with them?" "I want to know why are you so heartless for ignoring literally half of humanity’s problems?"
  Let me be very clear here: WOMEN DON'T OWE YOU SHIT! They are not responsible for making sure you're not "doomed to loneliness." And, I'm pretty sure that your inability to get laid does not constitute "half of humanity's problems."

  This might be news to you, but women are real, live, actual people. They have their own thoughts, and beliefs, and dreams, and goals. They are not required to be at your beck and call, and serve your every whim.

  There aren't more lesbians today than in older generations. They, along with others in the LGBTQ+ community, simply have more freedom to express who they are. Today, they are more accepted for who they are -- unlike in the past when people would be arrested and jailed for going to a gay bar; or for having consensual sex with someone of the same sex.

  No one is transforming women into lesbians. They are who they are. Maybe they know it early in life; maybe it takes years to realize it; maybe they never realize/accept it. But, it's their life.

  Educate you? No. I know your type. I could attach a dozen links researching what determines sexuality, but you'd ignore every one. You'd dismiss my research because it would prove you wrong. Educate yourself, Hairy. There are plenty of search engines you can use. I'd recommend searching for reputable sites, with peer-reviewed data. But, I suspect -- if you do any research -- you'll only believe sites which confirm your own beliefs.

  Why do I want to change the world? Because I believe it can be changed! Because things can be better. Because we can be better. Too many people walk around hating others because of issues they have in their own mind. You can't get laid; so, obviously, that's the fault of lesbians. But it's not. It's your fault. Let me say that again, because it's important. IT'S. YOUR. FAULT! Look in the mirror. Your message screams "Women owe men sex." News flash, pal; they don't.

  Perhaps, instead of complaining about lesbians, you should improve yourself. Try becoming a person someone would want to have a relationship with.

Semicolon

By Bud Koenemund

A 100 Word Story

  Her mouth moved along his collarbone; planting gentle kisses as she went. Sliding over his shoulder, she spied a tattoo. Even in the dim light, she recognized the symbol.
  “What’s this?” she asked, quietly.
  He turned his head to see what she meant.
  “It’s a semicolon,” he answered.
  “I know that,” she said, her fingertips brushing over the ink. “But, why?”
  “It’s a punctuation mark used to carry on when you could’ve just ended things,” he explained. “And, some people use it to remember.”
  “Remember what?” she prodded, then realized. “Did you…”
  “I carried on,” he whispered, pulling her closer.