Bob Robertson, The Ottawa Citizen, March 17, 2008
 
OTTAWA -- This is an open letter to the minister of Public Safety, Border Security and Wacky Haircuts, Mr. Stockwell Day.
 
Dear Minister Day,
 
I am writing to you because I think someone has to say these things. I have volunteered myself for the job because, perhaps, you might personally read it, knowing it came from me. Remember, you heard my routine once, then stole some of my jokes? But that's a story for another day (or another Day).
 
I was at the airport heading out on another comedy jaunt into the hinterland, bringing quality laughs to the humour-starved residents of postal codes with a lot of zeroes in them.
 
I had done all the new high-tech stuff like printing my boarding pass at home on my computer because I still, stupidly, believed that it would speed up the process of getting me onto my airplane faster. This, I can now see, is a complete waste of time because that airline, which shall remain nameless -- oh, hell, it was Air Canada -- had designated only one counter to check in a long, snaking line of us tech-savvy folks, plus those who don't savez the high-tech, so the Internet leg-up was, in fact, no advantage at all, just another excuse for the airline to use fewer and fewer employees.
 
But, that's not what this letter is about. It's about your bailiwick; public safety.
 
Although perhaps you are also the minister in charge of bailiwick safety, considering your masterful knowledge of wicks.
 
My fellow passengers and I had joined the queue to go through airport security, which is, next only to sitting in a proctologist's waiting room, everyone's favourite pastime.
 
Ahead of me in line was a very grandmotherly sort of old lady, the kind you would gladly help across the street, even under heavy fire from snipers, because she was just so cute.
 
As I stood well back of the infamous "red line", waiting for my turn to be humiliated, I watched granny get the "come-on" hand gesture that signals it's your turn to shuffle through the "arches of death."
 
Suddenly, there was such a beeping and honking I thought for a minute we were on a submarine preparing to dive. That poor little old soul was immediately swarmed by a pack of voracious wand wavers. She was ordered to take off her shoes and unbuckle her belt, all the time standing with her wobbly arms spread out like a frightened bungee jumper poised to leap.
 
The wands passed over her head, under her arms, between her legs, through her hair, all the while screeching like a stuttering smoke alarm. Granny began scanning the crowd for sympathetic faces, but we all averted our eyes, not wanting to be associated with a known saboteur.
 
My frequent flyer line mates were now growing restless. Someone muttered something about a bomb. They may have been discussing CBC television cancelling more shows, but I doubt it.
 
A disembodied voice at the back said "Some of us have planes to catch!" This timely reminder didn't seem to deter the wand wavers in their zeal to smoke out a terrorist on the always-dangerous Ottawa to Val d'Or run. And so, on they went, zapping granny's shoes, belt and wallet, confiscating her keys, coins and liquids. They ran her through the cavity search, the bend-over and cough exam, the lie detector, the double-blind taste test, the CAT scan and, for good measure, gave her a few shots with the Taser (a recent Canadian airport security innovation). Now, Mr. Minister, I'm sure you would tell me there was an outside chance that granny could have been part of a nursing home sleeper cell of al-Qaeda, who might possibly be recruiting and brainwashing elderly widows to storm the Dash 8 cockpit and, with their bus passes held to the throats of the pilots, make them fly the plane into the Peace Tower.
 
At the end, she did mention she was just going to visit the grandkids for the weekend, but who knows what Osama has been teaching his proselytes to use as a cover these days. You might also remind me that it was the terrorists who caused all this with their shoe bombs and their exploding baby formula, but, let me state emphatically: a victory in the war on terror will never be achieved by passing a wand over the crotch of old ladies.
 
The skies may still be friendly, but the ground sure ain't what it used to  be.
 
Robertson writes for the Ottawa Citizen.