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Willing victims

We get mad when the world treats us like suckers. But too often, we've asked for it.

The TV monitor says that the 5:40 flight to Chicago is on time, even though it's rainy and foggy and half of the board is showing delays. Half an hour before takeoff, there's still no plane at the gate. Yet somehow we're supposed to believe that by 5:40 it's going to turn up cleaned, gassed, filled with tiny pretzels, and ready to roll. They're taking us for morons again.

The airlines can't really figure that we're that gullible, can they? We may not be the Wright brothers, but we know enough about aviation and arithmetic to know that we're looking at another half-hour delay here, at least. So why do they give us the old on-time fairy tale?

Did we all just fall off a turnip truck? Somebody out there must think so. It used to be a no-no to insult our intelligence. Now, it seems to be the national pastime. It's like George Bush wanting Al Gore to take his kid brother's word on the election. Americans may have dumbed themselves down (just check the game show questions these days), but we aren't that dumb. Or are we?

We bought Pet Rocks, after all, and gave them to friends as gifts. We agree to marry "millionaire" strangers on TV. We borrow money to buy dot-com stocks dreamed up by 20-year-olds. So why shouldn't we believe what a blinking monitor tells us?

P. T. Barnum claimed that a sucker was born every minute, but that was a century ago when America was filled with newcomers who'd been told the streets were paved with gold. We're supposed to be more sophisticated now, less susceptible to scams that take us for rubes. And yet, we believe in diet creams and pyramid schemes. We believe that every vote counts. We believe online strangers really look like Britney Spears.

Experience should tell us otherwise, yet we're often willing to suspend disbelief. We're an optimistic people, after all. A recent poll found that 20 percent of us think we're among the wealthiest 1 percent of the populace, and another 20 expect to be there soon. What fuzzy math?

Isn't that the American Dream, after all? Forty acres and a mule, a chicken in every pot, and a money-back guarantee. We are the country of Elmer Gantry and the Music Man, the dream weavers. We keep electing politicians who promise blue skies and tax cuts.

We reward those who tell us what we want to hear. So why shouldn't the airlines assure us that we'll take off at 5:40, with tiny pretzels for all? And why do we feel deceived and annoyed when we're still twiddling our thumbs at 6 o'clock? Because, all our optimism aside, we hate being played for chumps.

I'm not sure where that line is, the line between being told what we want to hear and being taken for a moron. But I know when it's been crossed, usually around 5:20. That's when doubt becomes incredulity becomes umbrage.

Maybe it's just my wounded ego, but I get furious when I think my intelligence is being insulted. Not that I'm Einstein, but a 6-year-old can see through some of these scams. They may have sold a million Pet Rocks, but I never bought one. So go sell your Brooklyn Bridge somewhere else.

After a new bank (you know which one) took over our old bank, we got a thick packet explaining how much more convenient things were going to be for us. When I'd toted up all the fees, minimum balances, and whatnot, I realized that we'd actually be paying the bank for the privilege of letting it use our money.

So we closed the account and figured that was that. Then we got a letter assessing us a fee because our closed account had insufficient funds. "This is insane," I told my wife. "They must be taking us for morons. How can they think people will fall for this?"

The bank seems to be doing well, though. There are lines at the teller windows and at the ATM. Maybe they're withdrawing money to buy eToys stock.