Paranoia at the customs desk

OK, do I look like the type to smuggle a condom full of smack and a coupla firearms up my butt into this country? DAMN!! Welcome to Singapore, my ass! Oh sure, everyone’s playing all nicey-nicey but how does one not get riled by all these “death for drug traffickers” signs when maybe, just maybe, some asshole dealer in Jo’burg sized me up as his ideal middle-aged absentminded drug mule and the unhappy result of all that is it’s gonna be me and a couple dozen me-so-horny ladies in a single-cell nightmare until I die of lethal injection a few months from now. Midnight Express anyone? OMG!

Clearly I am unmellowed by age and experience in these matters and I still approach customs agents in a cold sweat, praying I won’t look guilty for crimes I haven’t even committed. I think it stems back to that time I got hauled into isolation at an Israeli airport for a whole bunch of weird questions ... but that was then, and this is now, and Molly wants to know: “Mom, if they catch me picking my nose, will they shoot me?”