I Don’t Want the Safest Seat—I Want Off the Plane

This morning, The New York Times ran an article titled: “Is There a Safest Seat in a Plane Crash? We Asked Experts.” I didn’t read it. Why? Because if I’m contemplating crash logistics before boarding, I’m not flying—I’m staying home and Googling Amtrak timetables like a rational coward.

I have a strict policy: I don’t waste cognitive energy calculating the least horrific outcome in a scenario that is, by definition, a screaming plunge into chaos. I don’t want the “least bad” seat on a falling aircraft. I want not to be on the damn aircraft.

Apply this logic elsewhere: If there’s a tropical fruit called the Toxo-Berry, whose flavor profile is “forbidden Skittles laced with liver failure,” I’m not reading “Which Toxo-Berry Is Least Likely to Kill You? We Asked Experts.” I’m steering clear of the entire genus.

Same goes for towns with names like Podunk, which sound like the setting of a Stephen King novella and have crime rates that make war zones look stable. No, I will not be reading “Is There a Relatively Safe Neighborhood in Podunk?” The answer is always no. The safest place in Podunk is the exit.

These articles aren’t journalism—they’re anxiety bait. Click-candy wrapped in pseudoscientific wrappings, meant to stoke your adrenal glands until you’re too twitchy to remember that real journalism is supposed to illuminate, not induce heart palpitations. I read newspapers to think better, not to panic dumber.