That I am a communist and not a Communist is belied by the fact that I was born to stand in bread lines. While, like everyone else, I dislike to queue, I manage to stoically survey a line of hundreds of people before finding my place at the very end of it. The most that will escape my lips is a quiet, “Oh, dear”—and then only if I’m in a dreadful hurry.

Yesterday, the queue for airport security stretched for some distance around a corner from the x-ray machines. Those hoping to pass through saw what appeared to be a short wait then rounded the bend to find dozens of people who had already been disabused of that illusion. Every single one of the newcomers gave in to the irrepressible urge to comment on the length of the line. My favorite was a woman who kept exclaiming, “Holy smokers!”, as if she kept closing her eyes and reopening them to discover that everyone who had gotten there first hadn't evaporated into the atmosphere.

This was clearly not the same woman who sat next to me at the gate and announced to her traveling companion (apparently her mother), “She’s a fucking bitch! I usually don’t talk like that, but I had to say it.”

“That’s not true,” said her mother with a beleaguered sigh. Her hair was coiled into a silver permanent, and it was unclear as to whether she disagreed with the idea that the unnamed person was a fucking bitch or that her daughter did not usually say such things.

“She is,” continued the first woman. “I told her there was an earlier flight. I told her! But she’s pretending I didn’t! She’s horrible!”

You’re horrible, I thought, but I was distracted by the arrival of a screaming baby that I just knew would be sitting behind me on the plane.

In that, I was mistaken: the screaming baby that sat behind me was a different screaming baby.

Holy smokers!

Update: I just received a political email with the subject "Genocide can be prevented," and my first thought was, "No, it can't." Pop quiz: am I a pessimist or a realist?