So there I stood. Herded into a small, claustrophobic glass and metal box, arms held over my head in abject submission, surrounded by uniformed guards, while naked pictures of my body were being scanned into a computer with a millimeter-band radar device. As I stepped out of the box, I happened to notice the swelling strains of the song playing softly over the PA:
“And I’m proud to be an American, where at least I know I’m free!”
If I’d actually had an irony meter with me, I’d probably be in jail right now for attempting to bring an explosive device on a plane…
