airport body scanner security 248.88 ap.
(photo credit: AP)
Ah, the airport, where modern folk heroes are made. The airport, where that
inspired flight attendant did what everyone who’s ever been in the spam-in-a-can
crush of a flying aluminum tube – where we collectively pretend that a clutch of
peanuts is a meal and a seat cushion is a “flotation device” – has always
dreamed of doing: pull the lever, blow the door, explode the chute, grab a beer,
slide to the tarmac and walk through the gates to sanity. Not since Rick and
Louis disappeared into the Casablanca fog headed for the Free French garrison in
Brazzaville has a stroll on the tarmac thrilled so many.
RELATED:TSA chief: US will not change airport screening policy
Who cares that
the crazed steward got arrested, pleaded guilty to sundry charges and probably
was a rude, unpleasant SOB to begin with? Bonnie and Clyde were psychopaths, yet
what child of the ’60s did not fall in love with Faye Dunaway and Warren Beatty?
And now three months later, the newest airport hero arrives. His genius was not
innovation in getting out, but deconstructing the entire process of getting in.
John Tyner, cleverly armed with an iPhone to give YouTube immortality to the
encounter, took exception to the TSA guard about to give him the benefit of
Homeland Security’s newest brainstorm – the upgraded, full-palm, up the groin,
In a stroke, the young man ascended to myth, or at
least the next edition of Bartlett’s, warning the agent not to “touch my junk.”
Not quite the 18th-century elegance of “Don’t Tread on Me,” but the age of
Twitter has a different cadence from the age of the musket. What the modern
battle cry lacks in archaic charm, it makes up for in full-body syllabic
Don’t touch my junk is the anthem of the modern man, the teaparty
patriot, the late-life libertarian, the midterm election voter.
touch my junk, Obamacare – get out of my doctor’s examining room, I’m wearing a
paper-thin gown slit down the back.
Don’t touch my junk, Google – Street
View is cool, but get off my street. Don’t touch my junk, you airport security
goon – my package belongs to no one but me, and do you really think I’m a
Nigerian nut job preparing for my 72-virgin orgy by blowing my johnson to
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.
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
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
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