Come on, Bob, haven't you seen El Mariachi? Musicians can be dangerous people.
Seriously, though: you are dead right here. This story has had me shaking my head all week. And I love the fact that terror-mongering folks on the right like Malkin have made this into a story about "political correctness." Because if you can't do anything about our real enemies, let's . . .well. . .bring back the OLD ones! Give me a break.
Yes, she is. And should the day come that we have a military action against North Korea, I'm going to flag down stewardesses and make a stink if I ever see her on a plane with me. Can't be too careful, you know.
The single kindest thing I can find to say is "Has it occurred to the Jabobsens they might be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder?" That sort of thing can induce unfortunate reactions in circumstances which bear a superficial resemblence to the original traumatic incident, after all. Granted, Poor Dear Annie has just heard about what went on inside the caputred planes on 9/11, but given the vivid imagination so many people who write about Wall Street possess [especially when evaluating a stock's prospects], I'm sure she was able to see that this was Just the Way It Was Then.
No one in America is a racist, really, unless they live in the South. I know this because every time I tell someone where I live, they're kind enough to explain it to me. All the racists have been coralled down here--sort of a game preserve, I guess. If she's not from the South, Poor Dear Annie can't be a racist. QED. And also: Feh.
Well, you know, our racism down here is rather specific. Growing up in North Carolina, I knew plenty of racial slurs, but they were almost all epithets for African-Americans. When I visited Boston, where the demographics were rather more complex, I discovered a whole new world of racial slurs. Apparently, there's an insult for just about every ethnic variation on the planet. In this contest, southerners are truly dilettantes.