Squishier than thou
Atlantic, The, December, 2001 by P. J. O'Rourke
Traveling to London from Washington twelve days after the terrorist attack, I expected security measures. I'd been told to arrive at Dulles Airport three hours before departure. I was ready for checkpoints where people in flak jackets would use mirrors to look for bombs under cars—although with automotive electronics and the puzzle plumbing of emissions control, everything under cars looks like a bomb.
Anyway, the checkpoints weren't there. At the ticket counter, instead of being asked once "Hasyourluggagebeenunderyourcontrolatalltimes?," I was asked twice. The metal detectors and x-ray machines were operated by the usual dim but friendly minimum-wage security guards, now somewhat less friendly. I was told to hand over my disposable lighter, to prevent, I suppose, any threat of "Do what I say or I'll light this Marlboro and you'll all die—in thirty years, owing to inhalation of secondhand smoke." I headed cheerlessly to the designated smoking area, expecting to ...