Good Essay on the No-Joke Zone at Airports
Joe Bennett in New Zealand:
An officer frisks me with hands like questing butterflies. Up my legs they flutter, then over my buttocks, my back, my chest and along my arms, but not, I notice, over my crotch. So there’s the answer. When my anger at being pointlessly searched in airports finally reaches such incandescence that I feel compelled to act, I’ll tape a bomblet behind my scrotum with the detonator clenched between my cheeks. It will kill no one except myself and I won’t make a pretty corpse, but I will make damn sure I take out a particular notice. You know the one I mean. It’s the only notice in human history to forbid, on pain of imprisonment, the making of jokes. I am not allowed to crack a joke about bombs.
Jokes are essential to mental well-being. But all authorities hate them because jokes pierce to the truth. Jokes see through bogus seriousness and say, “oh come off it”. The instinct to make jokes is a natural reaction to overweening authority.
The authorities have an obvious response. Airport security, they will say, is no laughing matter. Do I want planes to be blown up?
John R Campbell • November 2, 2007 7:24 AM
The hell of it is that highly-stressed people– and I work with some, who are on salary and have, for up to a month at a time, put in 96 hour weeks– often have little patience for humor, even for humor that isn’t pointed at them. I’ve gotten complaints that “I shouldn’t have the time to think of jokes”… but most of my humor does pop out of my subconscious instantaneously. The stuff I have to think about isn’t as funny, darn it.