RECENTLY IT WAS revealed that, in an attempt to free American hostages held in Lebanon, the United States government arranged arm shipments to Iran. To many observers this may come as something of a surprise.

Some, for example, may recall having seen Iranians burn large numbers of U.S. flags and Uncle Sams in effigy. Or they may recall that, historically, Iran has not always been helpful towards the United States in the field of hostage negotiations.

I confess that at first I, too, thought that the government's decision was a bit odd. It did not seem logical to give a gun to a man who had sworn to kill you. And yet I knew, in my heart of hearts, that our country had done the right thing. Thus I resolved to air my doubts with the sage of political sages, Yetimeister Rutger Fury.

Unfortunately, I had not seen my good friend in several weeks, since he had been dragged ignominiously from jail and deported. Apparently he was not an illegal immigrant so not protected by the general amnesty granted by Reagan. I had managed to convince the immigration people that I had no reason to be in America and was allowed to stay.

I had no job, however, and no credentials except a Nicaraguan visa, a liberal arts education, and a long record of drug-peddling arrests. In the eyes of society, I was untrustworthy and unemployable. So I took the only job I could get: airport security.

IT WAS DIFFICULT work. Oftentimes, duty obliged me to enforce laws that I did not believe were constitutional, such as the federal regulation prohibiting personal firearms on airplanes. But it did have its rewards: one day, while searching a jet recently arrived from Tibet, I unrolled a hassock to find a large man-like creature covered head to foot in matted hair.

"You!" it cried. "Hurry. We have to get moving!" It pulled off its head to reveal none other than the long-lost Fury.

"Rutger," I said, "I can't. I have two more hours until my coffeebreak."

"There's no time! We have to get to Teheran." It was no use protesting; we had to get to the story. As we stalked down the runway looking for a Middle-East bound jet I asked Fury the question that had been eating at my gut.

"Rutger," I said, "was it wise for America to sell weapons to Iran?"

He smiled. "Of course. Usually when confronted by an enemy the United States has bought a lot of weapons for itself. Now it has come up with a new idea: let the enemy buy the weapons. That way we get to pocket the money, and they get stuck with the substandard product instead of us."

I was stunned that such clear, incisive logic could emanate from something so furry. "I see. But maybe they'll use our weapons to try to hurt us. What then?"

He did not break stride as he mounted the steps alongside the Jihadair DC-10. "Ah, they're harmless. They're already obsessed with the annihilation of Iraq. By the time they finish that massacre there won't be any Iranians between the age of eight and 50."

We were stopped at the doorway by a veiled stewardess who blocked our way. "Security," I said, flashing my card, "and this is my...uh...sniffer dog." She let us through.

We continued our conversation. "But isn't it a bad precedent to reward a country so blatantly hostile to the United States?" I asked.