We’re Scared to Fly, and

We’re Scared to Fly, and It Blows

Naturally, there is much about which we could complain regarding air travel. For instance, somehow airplanes offer their patrons the world’s most stagnant air. Airline ventilation is so poor, in fact, we are certain that, if you look closely, you can see actual molecules dangling in your midst. The situation is so bad that we almost want the airlines to allow smoking on flights again: At least a pack of Benson & Hedges doesn’t reek as badly as mephitic airline pseudo-oxygen.

We also have a bone to pick with flight attendants (or, as they prefer to be called, stewardesses). Have you ever noticed, dear reader, that pretty much every one of these women falls into the category People Who Used To Be Pretty But Now Cake On Make-Up in an Ill-Advised Attempt To Relive Their Glory Days? As even the female staff members of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly” will inform you, passing by one of these ladies is akin to diving into a pool of Mary Kay products. And they’re so stingy with the pretzels.

But fetid air and superannuated flight attendants aren’t what we have in mind. Rather, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” aim to discuss the common-sensless approach that American airlines have taken toward security.

No doubt, this is the result of our friends at the ACLU, who are endeavoring to make the United States free enough for all of its citizenry to go down in a flaming morass. Thanks, guys. Can’t you bug the Boy Scouts again? At least no one is liable to be killed if Billy doesn’t get his merit badge in crocheting.

To be sure, airport security was pretty paltry before September 11. It seems as if the job was one rung lower on the occupational totem pole than crack whore. As such, you could rest assured that anyone in charge of monitoring the scanners at the airport had failed to land a job at Wendy’s. If that doesn’t make you feel safe, nothing will.

But clearly, the greatest absurdity related to airport security is the desultory nature of its enforcement. Thanks to the vicissitudes of the blight known as political correctness, the geniuses at airport security don’t bother to check out a young Islamonutter named Muhammed, bedecked in a fashionable “Those Pesky Jews” T-shirt, who just happens to have brought a rocket-launcher with him as a carry-on; rather, it hassles some nonagenarian spinster named Millie.

Sure, she—and not Muhammed—is likely to be in cahoots with Al Quaeda. She’s undoubtedly hiding a few grenades in the wheelchair you provided her. As a result, you should rifle through her sundry shawls and pristinely white tennis sneakers: Even though you’re more likely to find a coupon for “Sam’s Club,” you could stumble upon an AK-47.

We can already hear the clamor of manifold civil libertarians: You, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” support racial profiling! Well, we are honored that our comrades at the ACLU know how to refer to us properly (clearly, they’ve been reading our “weblog”), but we hasten to disagree. It makes darn good sense to take account of the age, sex, and country of origin of potential airline patrons, among manifold other criteria. We haven’t examined the data in a while, but we humbly submit that potential terrorists are a heck of a lot more likely to come from Saudi Arabia than, say, Denmark. Call it a hunch.

And this brings us to an important point: It appears as if contemporary American liberalism often concerns itself with what those in the world of theater call the willful suspension of disbelief. It certainly is unfortunate that citizens from Muslim countries currently have a monopoly on anti-American terrorism. As a result, our friends on the Left simply wish the problem away. Safety be darned.

In the end, then, modern airport security is surely one of the most horrifying irritants in contemporary America. In fact, we’ll be so bold as to label it a recipe for disaster: Take three underpaid dolts with wands, proverbially tie their hands behind their backs by means of the diktats of political correctness, and then mix thoroughly. Presto!: It’s the ACLU version of Baked Alaska. And it’s a real killer; unfortunately, it’s we who are liable to be cooked.