Texas... You're Dead To Me.

Texas. The Great Country of Texas (as they say down there). The Lone Star State...

Upon arrival in the Houston, TX Airport I expected that freedom loving Texas would have most certainly provided a smoking lounge for those of us who choose to indulge in that filthy habit of ours. Denver, CO has a few smoking lounges for us sub-human smokers. Atlanta, GA has at least one smoking lounge for us, the dregs of humanity. Even the Ninth Ring of Hell (Washington, D.C.) has a smoking lounge in the International Terminal, cramped and musty as it may have been when I layed over there before leaving the continent on business. But the so-called freedom lovers in Houston, Texas provide no such accommodation, perhaps because they fear that the brown festering cloud of exhaust and human indignity and industrial poison that they call "air" might be contaminated by the burning of a little bit of plant matter.

"Or maybe it's because they're a bunch of complacent sissies who have forgotten what freedom is," I thought to myself as the loudspeakers reminded me that today's scary color is Orange.

"Now wait a minute," I thought. "It's not fair to make such a gross generalization about the people of this big ol' state based on something as minor as a non-existant smoking lounge."

I made my way off the plane and through the terminal past what I initially thought was a blood thirsty lizard monster, but it turned out to be a statue of George Herbert Walker Bush surrounded by a shoddily produced set of signs attempting to convince passersby that he's just a hometown boy who gave it his best and scratched his way to the top, as opposed to the heir to a fortune built on money from treasonous business dealings with Nazis during WWII orchestrated by his father, Prescott Bush... in other words, a blood thirsty lizard monster.

As I walked past security and past the line of people happily waiting to remove their shoes and prove to their overlords that they didn't bring any bombs or toothpaste or gravy or water into the sacred halls of Houston International, I readied my cancer stick, realizing that I would soon enter that line (again) and attempt to prove the same... But what's this? New and previously unheard words threatened us all over the loudspeaker:

"Be aware that any inappropriate comments regarding security will result in your arrest."

I stepped outside into the exhilirating and refreshing Houston "air" and contributed my share (far less than the amount of carcinogens created by a trip to the corner store, mind you, even if you got tricked into thinking a Mini Cooper makes you look cool... you dope) to it's filth. I had only 51 minutes between flights, so I sucked down two Camels and felt that familiar feeling of fulfilment mixed with shame. Both the fulfilment and the shame wore off quickly and I marched back into the Nazi checkpoint... er... the security line, being forcefully reminded every 3 to 4 minutes that "any inappropriate comments about security" would result in my arrest.

It took the honorable and respected TSA jackass about 5 minutes to do a milliliters-to-ounces conversion on my tiny tube of toothpaste, finding that I had exceeded the 1.5 ounce limit on liquids by .5 ounces... I knew that, but I really wanted to bring my toothpaste, so I kept quiet... but now they knew, thanks to some brilliant detective work by a handsome 20 year old kid with corn rows in his hair and a nose ring and a new job that gave him authority over us all. I would have to hand it over or be subject to arrest... for having an extra half-ounce of toothpaste... in Texas... I handed it over. I just wanted to leave, and they know that's why they can scare us into doing their bidding... Because we just want to get it over with and go on with our travels, evetually forgetting how much the scene reminded us of seeing Nazis demand one's papers at the Austrian border.

I proceeded to the shoe removal zone, having been wearing the same socks for the past 9 days. Not much for retaliation, but at least I'd make them suffer for their nonsense a little bit. The well-educated and trustworthy TSA moron ahead forcefully reminded a crying child of about 3 or 4 years old that her "shoes gotsta come off"... I could feel an inappropriate comment regarding security welling up inside. Uh oh. Better let it out now, before it gets too inappropriate. I turned to the obviously American white male business traveler (who was wearing a tie in the airport for some reason I'm sure I'll never understand) and said:

"Hey, it's a free country, right?"

I guess I don't know what I expected him to say. Maybe it was just hope that lead me to believe a fellow American who had been taught the same line of shit about a free country I had in school would realize that this was ridiculous and quite possibly unnecessary and maybe even bordering on unconstitutional. No such luck. Not even in Texas..

"Well, you know what? I'm glad they're doing this. You can thank that guy with the bomb shoes."

I really wanted to punch this guy, and then thank the guy with the bomb shoes for the opportunity to do so by punching him, too.

After removing my bomb-free shoes and dragging my slimy socks across the floor and through the metal detector, a loud and distinct bleeping was heard. Shit. Did I accidentally bring my pocket knife or something? An extra lighter in my pocket? Spare change or something equally dreadful? What had I done?

"Do you got a belt on, Sir?" the vaguely attractive TSA idiot asked. Whew... I did, and the buckle was metal. I removed it, half-exposing the boxers I had been wearing for... quite some time... and walked again through the tattle-tale machine. All clear. Crisis averted. Heart rate returning to normal...Belt returning to holding-up-pants mode... The future of the this great nation secured once again.

Eventually I stumbled upon the correct gate for my departing flight, despite the 2 TSA geniuses I caught making out near the United Airlines terminals who didn't possess the ability to give me directions when asked... They did, however, possess Insane Clown Posse tattoos on their necks. Instead of giving me directions they told me that my tattoos were "chill". That was nice of them. I was finally feeling safe from the terrorists who "hate our 'freedom'".

I sat down near my gate and began to read one of my books, but was distracted by a man explaining loudly to a few seated women that, while stationed in Iraq, he "got to shoot people without getting in trouble for it."

No shit.

I couldm't help but feel that was an inappropriate comment regarding security...

I think at this point I must have blacked out or something, the surreal and horrible truth of what we are all being subjected to now laid bare in front of me in less than an hour. I vaguely remember getting on the plane and making a mental note that you're not even free in Texas, then enjoying my bag of 6 tiny pretzels while filling out the in-flight magazine's crossword puzzle with nonsense and profanity... Then putting it back for the next unfortunate soul who would sit in my seat.

Texas Assessment: No more free than any other state in The Union, yet somehow convinced they are the most free. Arguably less free than most other states unless, of course, you happen to be an energy company, in which case you can poison the water and steal the pension funds 'til the cows come home, with no toothpaste limit on your private jet. Far worse than, say Washington D.C or Berkeley, CA, because neither of those oppresive regimes claim to be free... at least not without tongue firmly pressed to cheek. Us thinking people know those places aren't interested in freedom of any kind. Texas, on the other hand, proceeds with nothing more than a delusion of freedom instead of taking notice of their having been brain washed. They're on the winning team (until the team turns on them, too), so they'll allow the winning team to do whatever it likes, regardless of anything at all... Wussies. (Author's Note: Some of my best friends are Texans... Sorry, y'all, but deep in the Heart (of Texas) you know I'm right.) Yee-haw, or whatever you like to say while dressed like a fancy-lad cowboy... Most of you have never touched a rope or a horse in your lives...Working in an office with a cowboy hat on doesn't make you a cowboy... It makes you an asshole. And it's because of assholes like yourselves that the terrorists have already won... Assholes.

But wait, there's more!

Upon returning home to Colorado, most of the people to whom I've told this story have responded with some form of abject ignorance, like:

"Good for them. You know, travelling is not a right, it's a priveledge."

Oh, really?.. And The Firsst Amendment? The right to Free Assembly (that crazy idea that is now most often referred to as the right to Free Speech, but also has significant implications regarding... travel)? Is that a priveledge too? Do I now need government consent to speak freely? To move about the country, having committed no crime? Do you, the reader, realize the dichotomy 2 sentences ago? If not, see the paragraph above and substitute the cowboy hat for whatever hat you're wearing right now. Asshole. (Author's Note: I own and occasionally wear a cowboy hat, but I have actually roped and branded cows in the sun. Those of you who legitimately wear cowboys hats are exempt from this tyrade).

To those of you who responded to this story by saying things like:

"In TEXAS?!?" and "Are you kidding me?!?" and "That's completely ridiculous!"... Thank you. You are our only hope. Maybe you remember freedom, too. Maybe we stand a chance against this destruction of our rights, and our freedoms, and our country.

To the rest of you:

If I'm not free to make a joke about the former gang member searching my bags for contrband (i.e. toothpaste or something equally as dangerous) then just what the hell am I free to do?

Post Script: In the interim, Hillary Clinton has won the Democratic primary in Texas, perhaps a side effect of I.Q. loss due to flouridated water. I won't dignify this election result with any further jokes. Texas, you're dead to me.