IN UP in the Air, that ironic take on the cramped freneticism of airport life, George Clooney explains why he always follows Asians in the security line: “They pack light, travel efficiently and they got a thing for slip-on shoes, God love ’em.”“That’s racist!” “I’m like my mother. I stereotype. It’s faster.”That riff is a crowd-pleaser because everyone knows that the entire apparatus of the security line is a national homage to political correctness. Nowhere do more people meekly acquiesce to more useless inconvenience and needless indignity for less purpose.Wizened seniors strain to untie their shoes; beltless salesmen struggle comically to hold up their pants; three-year-olds scream while being searched insanely for explosives – when everyone, everyone, knows that none of these people is a threat to anyone.We pretend that we go through this nonsense as a small price paid to assure the safety of air travel. Rubbish. This has nothing to do with safety – 95 percent of these inspections, searches, shoe removals and pat-downs are ridiculously unnecessary. The only reason we continue to do this is that people are too cowed to even question the absurd taboo against profiling – when the profile of the airline attacker is narrow, concrete, uniquely definable and universally known. So instead of seeking out terrorists, we seek out tubes of gel in stroller pouches.The junk man’s revolt marks the point at which a docile public declares that it will tolerate only so much idiocy. Metal detector? Back-of-the-hand pat? OK. We will swallow hard and pretend airline attackers are randomly distributed in the population.But now you insist on a full-body scan – a fairly accurate representation of my naked image to be viewed by a total stranger? Or alternatively, the full-body pat-down which, as the junk man correctly noted, would be sexual assault if performed by anyone else? This time you have gone too far, Big Bro’. The sleeping giant awakes. Take my shoes, remove my belt, waste my time and try my patience. But don’t touch my junk.– The Washington Post
Don’t touch my junk!
The only reason we tolerate the airport security hassle is that people are too cowed to question the absurd taboo against profiling.
IN UP in the Air, that ironic take on the cramped freneticism of airport life, George Clooney explains why he always follows Asians in the security line: “They pack light, travel efficiently and they got a thing for slip-on shoes, God love ’em.”“That’s racist!” “I’m like my mother. I stereotype. It’s faster.”That riff is a crowd-pleaser because everyone knows that the entire apparatus of the security line is a national homage to political correctness. Nowhere do more people meekly acquiesce to more useless inconvenience and needless indignity for less purpose.Wizened seniors strain to untie their shoes; beltless salesmen struggle comically to hold up their pants; three-year-olds scream while being searched insanely for explosives – when everyone, everyone, knows that none of these people is a threat to anyone.We pretend that we go through this nonsense as a small price paid to assure the safety of air travel. Rubbish. This has nothing to do with safety – 95 percent of these inspections, searches, shoe removals and pat-downs are ridiculously unnecessary. The only reason we continue to do this is that people are too cowed to even question the absurd taboo against profiling – when the profile of the airline attacker is narrow, concrete, uniquely definable and universally known. So instead of seeking out terrorists, we seek out tubes of gel in stroller pouches.The junk man’s revolt marks the point at which a docile public declares that it will tolerate only so much idiocy. Metal detector? Back-of-the-hand pat? OK. We will swallow hard and pretend airline attackers are randomly distributed in the population.But now you insist on a full-body scan – a fairly accurate representation of my naked image to be viewed by a total stranger? Or alternatively, the full-body pat-down which, as the junk man correctly noted, would be sexual assault if performed by anyone else? This time you have gone too far, Big Bro’. The sleeping giant awakes. Take my shoes, remove my belt, waste my time and try my patience. But don’t touch my junk.– The Washington Post