I just flew from Edinburgh to Dublin with about seven books and four gallons of whiskey.

They made me check my bag, presumably on the assumption that, during the hour-long flight, I’d either get so drunk I’d somehow crash the plane, or in a fit of boredom, douse myself in the alcohol and run around the plane on fire.

Or, you know, read.

I wouldn’t have minded at all, except that apparently whiskey purchased in the actual airport causes none of these worries.

Later, at security, I removed my shoes. Then my belt, and all warm outer clothes. I checked myself for little metal bits, just in case. Then I wondered: How long until we have to actually get naked? Will anyone put up a fuss at all? As it stands, I’ve watched all sorts of passengers remove most of their clothing, mince across a cold airport floor holding their trousers up with one hand, only to be patted down because apparently the metal detector doesn’t actually work.

The most anyone does anymore is give a harassed little sigh.

How long before our shirts? Then our socks, pants, and any shred of remaining dignity.

I remain convinced that the day will soon come when air travelers are stripped, oiled, and anally violated. Then we’ll be hog-tied, and after a ceremonial shaving, launched directly into the sun.

Some of us might give a harassed little sigh.