Of airport customs and a pair of red scissors

I'm typing this from the airport while waiting to board the plane. Just passed customs about half an hour ago and guess what? The evil monstrous X-ray machine glared with its hideous monitor eyes, highlighting my defenceless innocent pair of red scissors which the customs officer confiscated and threw right into the big blue rubbish bin. Oh, my poor scissors (just because I don't name it doesn't mean I don't treasure it)! It bore such sentimental value to me and has faithfully served me for the past 12 years since I was eight years old. Even a new pair of scissors is not as good - my dad would agree to that! And what did the customs officer say when I told him he could keep the scissors and use it (I told him how good and faithful it has been)?

"Sorry but I have throw it away. See that blue bin there? I'm throwing it now - look!"

Of course, I was already heartbroken and could not bear to witness my scissors' undignified funeral - I didn't even have a chance to pay my last respects nor bid farewell... If I had thought of it earlier, I would have stopped the officer and take a snapshot of my faithful scissors that I may publish an orbituary for it...

Oh, my dear red scissors! There will NEVER be another one like you...