I’m currently typing this on an Amtrak train… fully sober!
So I got in a car and drove over the bridge to Washington State, apparently
there’s no train station in Hood River, Oregon State. I put on some fresh
kicks, expecting to get off the car and roll into one of them fancy train
stations I’m used to in Europe, but instead there was but a patch of cement in
the middle of a field that resembles more a former Soviet Republic than it does
a developed country. I had to ask for clarification from the individuals in the
vicinity if this was indeed a train station, and not a freight-train refueling
station.
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| The desolation of American freedom |
So I stood around, soiling my sneakers, as the train was 5
minutes late! There’s only one train leaving the Hood River area to Portland each day,
so I couldn’t miss it. The train pulled into the cement patch, and one door
opened. The inspector stepped out, saw my box of Keystone Light and asked the 6
people there: “Whose box of Keystone Light is that?”
I remained quiet for a second, trying to formulate the best
answer: “Yea, it’s mine,” I eventually confessed. The train inspector was like,
“you can’t have that on the train!”
Yes, you heard correctly, a box of Keystone Light -- the
most American beer of all -- is not allowed into the cabin of an American
train! Worse of all, it’s in a state named Washington, the very man who was
willing to betray the king of Britain in the name of the freedom of every
white, landowning male to do whatever he pleases. I’m neither white, nor a
landowner, but I digress. However, times have changed, and I'm American, goddammit!
Now, the train inspector was nice enough to tell me that she
could put the box of Keystone Light in storage for me, I didn’t even have to
carry it into the train myself, she picked it up from the patch of cement and
placed it in the baggage bin. I could have snuck a few beers in my bookbag, but
I figured that I needed to do things publicly in order to avoid getting shot 20
times.
She asked my last name, and I gave her the fictitious alias I
had decided to use for the ride, in order to remain low-key enough to write
this critical article about the abysmal state of the American train system that robs every American, male or female, of their God-given constitutional right to "pursue happiness" through the imbibing of naturally-fermented products.
“My
last name is Abrey,” I told her. Yes, you heard correctly, in order to board a
train traveling through these free United States of America, a US citizen must
provide not only his name, but have identification ready.
Back when I was at Yale, I was dating a girl who was an
undocumented immigrant. Her parents had brought her to the United States when
she was a minor, but Yale was gracious enough to accept her. On a train
traveling from Washington DC, a large contingent of goosestepping Department of Homeland
Security troops boarded the train, wearing their black uniforms, and asked her: “Are
you a US citizen?”
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| Prison Planet |
She said “yes” in her perfect, unaccented English, and they
moved on. Had she replied truthfully, they would have apprehended her, placed
her in a federal detention center, and deported her back to Nicaragua. She had
a panic attack after exiting the train and almost had to be hospitalized. Such
is the state of affairs in America; immigrants are afraid of traveling, of
boarding trains, of being placed in internment camps by armed agents of the
American Gestapo. Yes, there are
immigrant internment camps in America!
Just recently, the Obama regime was criticized by the Boston
Globe for the brutal way in which it treats immigrant mothers, forcing them to
wear ankle bracelets, despite not being suspected of a criminal offense.
The train is shaking, and I’m only grateful that I took the
solid-state hard-drive laptop as opposed to my Linux hack-box, because this
much vibration would have killed the hard-drive by now. To top it all off, the
wifi isn’t working, and the train is going slower than a steam locomotive. At
any moment, I expect armed DHS agents to storm the train and shoot me for
providing a false name, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take in the name of
freedom. Should they board, I’ll simply tell them: “I paid for my ticket, I’m
not constitutionally-obligated to provide any more information.”
In Europe and the Middle East this would be viewed as needlessly invasive, but here in the "land of the brave" it is SOP [Standard Operating Procedure.] It is a testament to how far this country has sunk that we are now exporting our freedoms and succumbing to tyrannical laws. I just want to know, where are my freedom beers!?
The train pulled into Portland, and I went to the luggage bin to free my beer from bondage. The inspector grabbed her massive keychain and opened a locker, where my box was stored. I immediately proceeded to the bathroom at the train station to pursue my alcoholic happiness. Overall, I'm glad my box of Keystone Light was treated with due respect, and kept behind locked doors.
With contribution by: Huuraibou
