Children in airports are a delight, principally because they tell shit like it is and there isn’t a goddamn thing anyone can do about it.

Say, hypothetically, you’re told to stand in a crazy long security line instead of the much shorter one you’ve chosen.

When you ask, in a practiced, measured tone, why you’re being told to stand in the crazy long line, the guy with mustard stains on his uniform suggests, view troglodytic utterance, that you are an ignoramus.

The five year old standing behind you, eavesdropping as all good kids do, counters by saying the guy with mustard stains on his uniform is “dumb.” The child does so loudly, and is met with perfunctory chastisement by his mother, who is simultaneously beaming with pride, much to the consternation of the guy with mustard stains on his uniform.

I remain in the shorter line, humming a whimsical tune.